Star Wars: Apex Ascent
by StarvingSun
Summary: There are places in the galaxy best left forgotten. Lonely paths. Four people, each with their own wants, needs, and connection to the Force try to find their way in the aftermath of the Jedi Civil War. They'll discover that despite radically different takes on life, they're each merely trying to find what makes them whole. (Story draws heavily on EU Lore. All original characters)
1. Traces

STAR WARS: TRACES

 **IT WAS THE** weight of his boot on the man's neck that made him feel powerful. Not the layered hum of the Force echoing throughout his body. Not the crimson glow of the etched lightsaber in his gloved grip. Not the apprentice standing behind him, watching studiously as his master pried the information he so hungrily desired out of the man on the ground. Just the weight. The simple, pleasurable act of squeezing the life from another being with the strength of his body.

"Please..." gasped the man. His mouth opened and closed like a stranded fish. His eyes were filled with fear.

Ven raised his foot. The subsequent gasp nearly made him slam it back down again in disgust, but he needed more from this prostrate weakling. He smoothly guided the tip of his saber to the man's throat. "Speak," Ven hummed through his mask. His words carried electric power.

"The device, I sold it to a Rodian three hours ago. He twitched a lot – more than his kind usually do. He wore a jacket with the Blink Star Shipping Line logo."

"What would that Rodian have wanted with a holocron?" Ryker asked his master.

"Doubtful he knew what he had," Ven answered. Just a Rodian collecting what he thought was shiny junk to flip elsewhere in his travels. Unless…

Ven dismissed the merchant's life with a twisting motion in his left hand, and the Force ushered him into the next plane. He looked around the quiet storefront once more. Odds and ends from the crevices of the galaxy that few cared to explore. How a Sith Holocron had ended up here was quite the mystery, though it wasn't the first time such a thing had happened. More curious was how the new owner would receive such an influential item. It was not unlikely that the holocron would seek to be obtained by more suitable hands – such as Ven's. This was, of course, assuming that all he had heard about this particular piece of Sith knowledge was true. An eccentric creator led to an unpredictable holocron.

Tersi station was a hovering pile of junk, as far as Ven was concerned. Primarily, it suited the needs of spacers traversing the long shipping routes from Core Worlds to the Outer Rim, but it was just one of many. This particular refuge had many Blink Star freighters docked, but Q6 would swiftly find all those with a Rodian pilot. The little grey orb sweetly chimed as it floated from his palm to the terminal on the shopkeeper's desk, injecting itself neatly into the station's network. It gyrated its spindle several times, thrumming with incoming information. After a moment, it relinquished, and floated before Ven's mask, illuminating it with the blue glow of the droid's lights. It beeped out the location of a dock matching the search criteria. Excitement coursed through Ven's spine, and he smiled behind his mask.

"Let's go."

" **NO, I DON'T** want -"

A flurry of Rodian cut Taylor off. In the scales of his green hands the spacer held a wooden box that looked, by Taylor's account, completely unassuming. What was strange was that the Rodian didn't want any money for it.

"Listen. Guy. I don't want your box. That's _your_ box. _You_ found it. Good job! Proud of you. Now move," Taylor said with an edge in his voice, sliding his shoulder roughly past the Rodian. He bumped the alien, who was pushed aside with loud protest.

"You smuggler, yes? You Taylor Dodge."

Taylor stopped, pinching the space between his eyebrows. He whirled around on the Rodian with indignation. Who just outs a smuggler like that on a busy station?

"Listen buddy, I'm not him, but if I was him, I'd probably blast your brains out across the wall for saying my name out loud," Taylor hissed in the Rodian's face. In his experience, Rodians had always smelled like an interesting blend of iodized air and exotic spices, and this case was no different. This one, though, didn't seem to have many brains. He regarded Taylor blankly with his bulbous black eyes.

"You take this to Korriban," the Rodian said, pushing the box into Taylor's abdomen. Taylor looked around incredulously. The hangar was fairly empty, save for a few maintenance droids buzzing about. But this Rodian was crazy.

"Are you kidding me? There's not enough Credits in the -"

"Two million."

"Say what now."

"Two million Credits for delivery of box to Dreshdae. Find Tulag Zan."

That was certainly a large enough sum to make Taylor consider it. He watched as the Rodian walked away, observing the Blink Star logo on the back of his jacket. Why he would have connections on Korriban was beyond Taylor, but it wasn't worth asking. Taylor was mostly concerned with how easily he had been recognized. He guessed that Tersi Station was a bit too frequent of a visit for him. He'd have to find other haunts for a while.

Of all the smugglers operating in that sector of the galaxy, Taylor was one of the few who had the proper tags to land in Dreshdae. That didn't mean he liked to do it – being caught leaving the Korriban system by any passing Republic cruisers was grounds for immediate apprehension and full search and seizure of the ship. A death sentence for a smuggler who made his living out in the Rim. No one would trust him again. Taylor traced his fingers over the face of the wooden box. It seemed boring, but knowing that someone on Korriban wanted it meant that whatever was inside was best left there, undiscovered. Taylor had an innate curiosity, but he also had common sense. He looked back at the hangar exit, but the Rodian was gone. Shaking his head, he returned to his ship to stash the box until it was time to disembark. After all, he'd just arrived on Tersi, and still had business to take care of.

 **HANGAR 006 was** down the corridor. The Czerka hangar and the young female greeter outside passed by on his right. Ven walked with intent, his cloak billowing out behind him. He felt many little spots of warmth around him, as well as the electric hymn of the droids. These hangars were busy. He would need to be swift to avoid causing a larger scene.

Q6 gleefully bypassed the hangar's access code, and the doors whirled open. Ven and Ryker strode inward, and Ven was relieved and emboldened to see the massive Blink Star freighter was still in the bay. Loader droids were passing a series of hefty crates along and up the cargo ramp. Ven approached one, who did not look up from his work.

"Where is the owner of this ship?" he asked coolly.

"Ship owner is currently behind you, sir," the droid answered in its deep voice.

Ven grinned in the shadow of his mask. He spun around to see the frightened Rodian standing in the doorway, carrying a carton of noodles, which he promptly dropped. With a simple gesture of his hand, the exit sealed shut. Ven had never seen a Rodian gulp before, but he was fairly certain that he did for the first time in that hangar.

"Hello," Ryker said pleasantly. Silence had fallen. The dulled roar of a distant ship departing the station passed by outside. Ryker had taken the initiative, walking confidently towards the Rodian. Ven had seen this before; his apprentice had a way about him. It was a quiet deception, enacted by his mannerisms more than anything. Like a lurking predator, he lulled his prey into dropping its defenses. Ven stood and watched intently. "We believe you have something of ours." The Rodian answered in his native tongue. Ryker cut him off gently. "No, no. I know you speak Basic. Let's start from there. The device you purchased from the junk trader earlier – where might it be?"

"I buy nothing. I here to pick up cargo. Refuel. Busy route, many stops."

"That's not what we've been told," Ryker said, standing very close to the Rodian. His presence had suddenly grown. Ven could feel the strength of the Force flowing out from Ryker and bearing down on top of the lying filth before him. "You bought a _very_ special souvenir here. Where. Is. It." Ryker's voice had fallen into a deadly whisper. The Rodian was quaking.

"I-I send it to destination. Buyer from Korriban. It there now."

"Korriban?" Ryker asked, confused. He turned to face Ven. "Who bought it from you? I need a name."

"No name. Sith. No name."

"Master, if Veshiram -"

Ven raised a hand to stop his apprentice from speaking any further. He was incensed. There was but one person at the Academy who would have known about the holocron – and if he did, Ven's path forward would become considerably more difficult. He did not like that.

Q6 screamed out an alert. Doing its due diligence, the droid had been scouring the shipping logs of the hangars. Nothing aboard resembled the holocron. It was not in the ship – but security footage from a nearby hangar showed the Rodian pilot delivering a small box into the hands of a human spacer. Casting all other thoughts aside, Ven swept from the hangar, his apprentice and droid in tow. The exit door was ripped open by a violent invisible wave that crumpled the durasteel with ease. With the sound of his heart pounding in his ears, Ven resolved to go to war.

" **THAT'S A LOT,** " Taylor whined. The Ithorian vendor chugged along, pleading his case. "I can get two of these same units at any other station out here – yes, Outer Rim, Core, doesn't matter – I _know_ how far we are from – alright, alright, fine. Blasted thing isn't worth this much talking." He slammed the Credits down on the Ithorian's table and scooped up his power cell. Diatium. In truth, Taylor was glad he found one here at all. They were scarce unless you bought them from a wholesaler like Czerka, but Taylor despised dealing with their kind. He figured he'd support the local economy.

The power cell wasn't why he had made the trip out to Tersi, though. It was just something he had remembered to check for while he was there, because of a previous conversation. A while ago, someone had told him something that had stuck with Taylor since. A while ago.

His trip this time had been to meet an old friend. Whether or not she would consider their relationship to be friendly was speculative, but Taylor figured he had to give it a shot. The galaxy got to be a lonely place, and when he started mistaking the little quirks of his hyperdrive engine for another person's voice, well…

"Shayira. Hey. I know you're home."

The intercom flickered to life. The disgruntled, yet beautiful face of a woman Taylor hadn't seen in months appeared.

"You know what? No," she said, sleepily rubbing her eyes. "This is my one day off for a long time, I just wanted to sleep, I did NOT want to see, hear, or think of you. So I won't. I'm going to pretend this is a bad dream. Goodbye" she said curtly, cutting off the feed.

Taylor buzzed the button again.

"I've been around the galaxy more times than I can count, and absolutely nothing turns me on more than when you bitch at me," he said softly. Static was his reply. "Shayira."

"...What?"

"Let me in, please?" There was a brief pause, then the double doors to her apartment shot open. Smiling faintly, Taylor entered the dark room.

" **YOU KNOW, JEDI** can't take lovers," Shayira murmured sleepily. Taylor kissed her shoulder. She pulled the sheets around her tighter.

"That's why I swore I would never become one," Taylor said into her skin.

"Yep. That's the whole reason," she teased.

"It is. You're right. They don't know what they're missing. I bet that's the leading cause of Jedi turning to the Dark Side." She giggled in response.

"You know so much about them, for someone who's so quick to judge them," Shayira said, rolling over to face Taylor.

"Yeah, well. I've been to a lot of places. I pick stuff up."

"Women, too?"

"One," he said, entwining his fingers with hers. "And I never picked up another."

"Please," she said, turning away. But he could tell she was content with the answer. Quiet reigned for a long moment. "Do you ever think about...quitting?" she asked. It wasn't the first time, either. "I mean, if you wanted to...we could move to Coruscant. My uncle still has that garage. You could work there, you're a brilliant mechanic -"

"I'm good at patching up Duststorm," Taylor laughed. "I mean, I sort of have to be. I'm not sure I have the formal training your uncle would be looking for.."

"But he's my uncle. I could make it happen. It's just...you'd need to commit to it." He knew what the real 'it' she wanted him to commit to was. And there were times in the past when he almost did it, too. But when he looked out of her own window, through the blinds, at all those stars, his heart stirred. Something voiceless called to him, and it had him in its grip tighter than she ever could.

But now…

"And all those Jedi I like are on Coruscant," he said, somewhat sheepishly.

Shayira spun back around to look at him. There was a glitter in her dark eyes that made him realize it was worth it. "Are you serious?"

"Let's give it a shot," he said, wrapping her warm body in his arms. "A real shot."

On the nightstand, in the slanted shadows of the blinds, Taylor's datapad vibrated to life. Confused, he swiped at it, pulling it to him. On his back, Taylor held the pad up and looked at the screen. It was the alarm from Duststorm – someone had boarded his ship.

"What is it?" Shayira asked, puzzled.

"I think someone's trying to steal my ship," Taylor said hurriedly, jumping out of bed.

"What?!" Shayira asked as he pulled on his pants. "There's no way – security here is so good, I don't -"

"Apparently it's not all _that_ good," Taylor said, now sounding frantic, holstering his blaster pistol. He looked at the datapad on the bed. The camera feed from inside the main hold on the Duststorm had an unfamiliar figure. A robed man in a shining metal breastplate and greaves was looking directly up at the camera, his sandy blond hair and piercing yellow eyes distinguishing his smooth, young face. He waived at Taylor, as though he could see him, mouthing out a, 'hello'.

The door to Shayira's apartment imploded, it's tattered husk flying across the room to the far wall. Taylor and Shayira froze, watching in horror as a hooded figure and floating assistant droid drifted into the room in the long rectangle of light cast from the hallway outside. He stood in the darkness, facing into the bedroom. A nausea that Taylor recalled from only one time prior in his travels washed over him, and icy fear prickled his back. Taylor noticed the intruder's clenched fists.

He was a quick draw and a dead eye. But the reaction of the stranger was inhuman. Taylor's blaster bolt was deflected soundly by the thing he had perhaps wished to see the least – a roaring red lightsaber, drawn faster than Taylor had time to think about. The hot glow revealed a battle-scarred metallic mask beneath the hood, comprised of many gears and tubes. There was no time to confirm, but the thought that it was an amalgamation of a stripped down hyperdrive leaped to Taylor's mind.

"The holocron. Or I kill her," said the Sith. Shayira made a gagging noise – he was choking her remotely. Taylor had seen this power employed before. He knew how it ended.

"It's on my ship. There's a smuggling compartment beneath the Pazzak table. It's there. You want the guy who gave it to me, too?"

The little grey droid projected a digital monitor showing the face of the blond man aboard the Duststorm. He did as Taylor suggested, easily finding the release switch. He produced the wooden box from within, showing it to the camera. The masked Sith turned his head to look at the screen, then nodded slightly. He let his hand fall. Shayira gasped for air behind Taylor.

Together, they watched as the young man carefully slide back the lid of the box. Oiled cloth padded the interior, and resting upon it was a pyramid structure of red and black with strange engravings. It pulsed gently with a faint light, bloody in color. The masked man seemed affected by the mere act of seeing it. From Taylor's perspective, it seemed almost cathartic for him.

"Thank you for your cooperation," he buzzed from behind the mask. Taylor could hear the breathlessness. "Now you may die in peace." He strode forward, saber in hand. Shayira gasped.

 **THE ROILING WAVE** slammed into Ven's side with a magnitude he had not experienced for many battles. Completely caught off guard, he flew into furniture, obliterating it and sending sharp fragments everywhere. He rallied, standing quickly, and called his saber to his side. He ignited it as he regarded his opponent; a silhouette in the doorway, a blue saber held loosely in her slender hand. She stepped forward, raising her blade.

Ven wanted nothing more in that instant than to maker her suffer.

Their blades crossed, and the sound of the two streams of energy resisting each other lived up to his expectations. Her blade work was tight and precise; as they dueled, he was interested to see Makashi was her style. The classical duelist. Her strikes flowed together, her blade constantly attempting to slide down his, targeting his fingers. It was a nuisance and was not accustomed to dealing with. He played defensively, relishing the challenge of dissecting the Jedi's patterns, but seething at his own lack of ability to quickly dispatch her.

"Your style is ancient," he remarked, their blades locked tight. She looked at him with her defiant eyes and smirked.

"But it works for you," she said. She twisted her blade, creating a small opening towards Ven's left shoulder. She struck quickly, jabbing at him and singing a small hole in his armor. Ven recoiled, screaming through the Force. The glass in the apartment cracked and shattered, and the emergency airlock clamped down on the window. The two people in the bedroom covered their ears in agony, but after a moment's wince, the Jedi shrugged off the mental assault. "Typical," she mocked.

Ven's fury swam through is body, tightening his muscles. All other sounds drowned out, and the muted shriek of his rage mounted in pitch. He watched with blurry eyes as the Jedi stood over him, mocking him, so sure of her superiority. The piercing tone in his ears reached a peak, and he lunged for her.

He battered her saber downward with a quick strike, swapped the blade to his left hand, and with his cybernetic right arm he grabbed the girl by her throat. He struggled against his grip, which only spurred Ven forward. Her hands clutched his gauntlet as she fought against the slow, twisting motion of the machinery in his arm. He sought to snap her neck in half. He was so sure of his imminent success that he ignored the blaster bolt hurtling towards his side.

The shot elicited a pain that snapped Ven out of his trance. He lost the girl's neck in his grip, and collapsed in dejected injury, only barely deflecting the subsequent blasts with his lightsaber. Wounded, Ven now realized there was very little he could do against the Jedi a she recovered her strength and prepared to strike him down. But he did not intend to die there.

"Well done," he conceded. The Jedi watched with guarded readiness. "But I will not become your prisoner today."

"You misunderstand my intent," the Jedi said lowly.

"Oh? Have the Jedi taken to killing now?" Ven asked. She did not answer. "If so, what separates you and I?"

"A multitude of things you will never understand," she replied, taking a slight step forward.

"Like an advantage in bargaining?" Ven asked smugly, indicating the innocents with his finger. Q6 had a small blaster pointed at the girl in the bedroom's head. Her lover spun to look, bewildered. The Jedi betrayed her acceptance instantly with a change in body language.

"Very well. Take your leave, Sith, but know that today you were bested."

"Perhaps, but not by you," Ven said, rising gingerly. Q6 hovered near the woman's head as she slowly walked to the door. They eased their way down the hallway, their frightened and tearful hostage unsure of when, if at all, she would be relinquished. The man and the Jedi could only watch, helpless. Ven knew that if he released the girl too early, he would easily be overtaken by the Force-assisted speed of the Knight. He crowded her into the small elevator, pressing the button for the hangar floor of the station. As the doors closed he saw the face of the woman's boyfriend in the gap. It was contorted by a powerful hatred. It was a look that not many could muster, save for those with every intent to put their fury into action.

He supposed the man would have made a very good Sith.

 **THEY HELD THEIR** blaster rifles tightly. The police forces of Tersi station had never seen a Sith in combat before. Forming a semi-circle in the atrium, waiting for the elevator to drop down just a few more floors, it was likely that a few of them began to regret their career choices. If one were trained in such things, it is possible to taste the color of their fear in the air, to feel the minute currents of their nervous systems alight. From that point, they become subject to your manipulation and, in the most powerful of hands, total domination.

Ven cared not for such boring methods.

When the elevator opened, the guards were confused to see nothing but a frightened young women wrapped in bed sheets. It wasn't until it was far too late that one noticed the shimmer of a stealth generator field a few inches in front of his face.

Q6 ceased his cloaking of Ven, who knelt and slammed his palm into the floor with visceral force. The Force radiated in a magnificent pulse outward, the dome of the energy flinging the bewildered police from their feet with lethal velocity. Ven stood satisfied amongst the arc pattern of broken skeletons and moaning survivors. Alarms across the station were blaring, and lock down had commenced. Red warning lights rotated and flashed on the ceiling, and a droid's voice on the intercom warned citizens to take immediate cover. Ven snarled with resolve, and trudged towards his hangar.

 **SHE WAS SHAKING**. Taylor held Shayira in his arms, trying as best he could to quell her tremors, but it was beyond him. Something was affecting her more than the near-death experience. It was a wound he could feel, but not see. The proximity with the Sith had taken its toll on him, too – but Taylor had the benefit of some prior experience. This poor girl did not.

"An encounter with one such as him...it leaves a mark," the Jedi said with quiet compassion. She was kneeling before Shayira, who was still wrapped in her bedsheets. They were in the atrium, a contingency of Tersi station guards picking through the wreckage left by the Sith's escape. Taylor thought it looked like a thermal detonator had exploded point blank in the faces of the dead, but there was no carbon scoring to be found. An eerie sensation coated the air in that place.

"Jedi can heal, can't they? Isn't there something you can do for her?" Taylor pleaded.

"This is a deeper affliction. Time is the best method of recovery." The Jedi looked in Taylor's eye. "And the support of her loved ones."

"Let me ask you something," Taylor said, rising from his spot by Shayira's side. "Your order condemns love for its own, but here you are preaching it to me. Why?"

"The Force is too powerful to be wielded by those who would tinge it with their emotions. That is the realm of the Sith. The temptation to misuse such a miraculous gift is sacrilegious to my order, yes. But we are not zealots. We understand the power of family, too." She smiled at him gently.

It was an answer that struck a chord with Taylor. Something in her words gave him peace. Or perhaps she was subtly manipulating him – he'd seen that before, too. Taylor admittedly preferred the idea of Jedi he could identify with, rather than the image of the cold, righteous warriors who walked so high above the rest of the population.

"You know, I wanted to become a Jedi once. A long time ago," he said wistfully.

"When you were young, our order must have been rebuilding," she responded. "The dark times were not all that long ago."

"I mean, you and I are about the same age," Taylor said, scrutinizing the dark skin of her face.

"I'm twenty-three."

"As am I," she said. Taylor chuckled.

"What's your name? Sorry, didn't catch it earlier," he asked.

"There was no time. I apologize. My name is Lanee. Lanee Bindo."

"Lanee, huh? Nice to meet you. And thanks for saving our lives," Taylor said, extending a hand. She shook it firmly.

"No need to thank. I had been tracking that Sith for quite some time. I'm just glad I was able to intervene at the right moment."

"Who is he? What does he want with that triangle thing?"

Lanee's expression darkened.

"He is independent, even for a Sith. His name is Ven, and his apprentice is Ryker. They left Korriban two years ago and began operating in the Outer Rim. I've been on to his trail for a long time now. He uses the shadows to hide himself well, but here and there the evidence of his handiwork exists. Although, this..." she said, gesturing at the scene of carnage before them. "This is his largest yet. This carries the scent of desperation."

"You didn't answer the part about the triangle."

"I'm weighing the value of telling you," she answered simply. "That thing you saw is a Sith Holocron. It's a trinket of the Dark Side, and something you never want to be close to."

"What's it do, exactly?"

"It's a recording, but not merely that. The creator of a holocron infuses a piece of himself in the device. It lives through the Force, carrying much more detailed knowledge and experience than a simple recording ever could."

"So who made that one, then? It must be someone important for Ven to want it this badly."

"I'm ashamed to admit that I don't know. But he has it now. I mustn't let him absorb its secrets."

Taylor didn't quite see just what was so bad about letting the thing go. In his estimation, that object was the cause of Ven's streak of violence. Now that he had it, perhaps he'd scuttle off to whatever dark hole he crawled out of to spend precious time dissecting it, which would be time spent away from society. In other words, a good thing.

"I wish there was more I could do for Shayira, but it is beyond my realm of capabilities. If you'd like, I could send a healer out to check on you two within the next two weeks," Lanee offered. Taylor gathered that she was about to depart.

"That would be..." he said, trailing off. There was a snag in his brain. Two weeks. He contemplated sitting in that apartment, unsure of whether or not Shayira would even be able to bounce back. He looked at the catatonic girl, her legs splayed on the cold metal floor. His chest ached for her, but it also ached for something else. It yearned for freedom, and this was a tethering. This was what he feared. "I don't live with her, actually. If the healer can't get here any sooner, she has family on Coruscant. I think I'd rather take her there instead."

"Oh, that is acceptable as well. They can bring her to the Temple if need be," Lanee said.

"Were you trained there? The Temple on Coruscant, I mean."

"Yes, I was." Taylor nodded, looking towards the docks.

"I don't suppose...ah. I don't know," he murmured.

"Speak freely, friend."

Taylor looked back at Lanee, resolve and ambition burning in his eyes.

"Do you have time to look at something?"

 **FIRST HE MADE** sure Shayira was tucked quietly away in one of the cabins. Then he led Lanee to Duststorm's garage. He had a work bench there, littered with tools and odds and ends. He felt an unwanted flush of embarrassment as they approached, because he knew a Jedi would immediately be able to recognize what he was attempting to do based on the items there. The lens. The flux aperture. The stabilizing ring, and the field energizer next to it. The sculpted metal cylinder above all of that. Lanee looked, but Taylor could not tell from her eyes if she passed judgment or not.

"You're trying to construct a lightsaber," she said, spreading her hands out across the bench. She gazed critically at the parts Taylor had assembled.

"That is what I'm doing," he confirmed.

"Why?" She asked. Taylor shrugged his shoulders.

"Why not? They seem pretty useful."

"They're a wonderful tool. And a powerful weapon. But they require a tremendous amount of training to use properly. Padawans start when they are toddlers. And the act of building itself can be incredibly dangerous, if you -"

"Invert the emitter matrix, the whole thing will explode. I know," Taylor said, sauntering over to the bench himself. "I've seen one built properly before. The...engineer I guess you'd call it...provided commentary."

Lanee chewed on her lip thoughtfully.

"Well, even though I advise against it, you're only really missing the power cell and the crystal," she said. He produced the diatium power cell from the Ithorian vendor earlier and set it on the table. She raised her eyebrows in recognition. "Just a crystal, then."

"Those have been hard to find. I hear there are caves out there where they grow. Do you guys farm them or something?"

"We harvest them. Our young ones go to the caves – they're truly beautiful. Glittering expanses of them, in an array of colors. The Force flows strongly in such places, so much so in fact that you can hear its whisper if you listen closely," she mused. "They're exceedingly rare."

"Sounds like you have fond memories of one," Taylor commented, leaning his back against the wall. He suddenly realized how tired he was.

"Yes," she said, then grew quiet for a moment. "I take it this is what you wanted to show me, then?"

"When I was a child, I desperately wanted to be considered for Jedi training," Taylor said. It felt like an echo had escape his lips; not quite his own words. He had dwelt on the notion for so long now that hearing it out loud was alien.

"Many do, but you seem to know something of our order already. So surely you know we do not consider adults."

"I..." Taylor began. "Yeah. I knew that. But if I can build a lightsaber, doesn't that show something?"

"You haven't built it yet," she responded. "I must ask – what drives your ambition? Where does this desire to become one of us stem from?"

"It's a long story," he deflected.

"For another time then. But Taylor, a lightsaber does not make a Jedi. A Jedi makes a lightsaber. If you construct this properly, then it speaks well for your prospects. But you'll need this first," Lanee said, opening a pouch on the belt of her sandy colored robes. A golden crystal appeared in her fingers, sharp edged and bullet shaped. Taylor was drawn to it, a pull keeping him from looking away. That old yearning he was so familiar with flared up again.

"A Jedi must meditate on his crystal to imbue it with the power of the Force. If the crystal is blank, the blade will not appear healthy. If you're truly capable of joining us, then you will be able to imprint upon this crystal. And then you can contact me," she said, passing him the necessary information. It was a chance he had deeply desired in his past, and overwhelming gratitude bloomed in his chest.

"I won't let you down," he promised.

"I have a feeling you won't," she said, smiling one last time.

 **DUSTSTORM HURTLED THROUGH** the blue lines of the hyperspace lane towards the Core Worlds, and the humming lulled Taylor in his cockpit. He had checked on Shayira three times, and each time she had been sound asleep. Despite professing her inability to help, Taylor felt like Lanee merely being there had done something for Shayira. It had certainly done something for him. The Jedi radiated a calming strength that he felt able to draw on. It was inspirational for someone who had spent so much time in the seedier side of the galaxy. He felt like his spirit had a lot of exfoliating to do.

Sinking into his pilot's seat, Taylor let his eyes close and his mind drift. Channeling the Force into a crystal was hilariously beyond his scope of abilities. Where he had walked, most people seemed allergic to the mysticism of the Jedi. It had been a long time since their prominence was felt out there. In his childhood, they were considered extinct by many. In the wake of their departure, much animosity had developed towards their stoicism; blame for past wars due to their inaction, and a general dislike of their preaching in a world that often seemed deaf to the lighter values the order held sacred. Taylor had never seen it that way. Then again, Taylor had seen much more than the average vagrant first-hand…

" _ **YOU KNOW, THERE**_ _is something soothing in the task of manipulating things with ones own hands," reverberated the voice. He remembered it now – the dim light of the cell. The drip of condensation from the coolant line above their heads. "As opposed to doing it with the Force, that is."_

" _Why am I here? What do you want with me?" He had asked desperately._

" _Oh, a multitude of reasons," crooned the old man, not turning from his task. "See here? This power cell is corroded – junk. Use a fresh one. It'll last forever."_

" _At least...tell me what's going to happen."_

" _And atop that, affix the focusing crystal. Yes. Like this, you see?" he turned, his mottled hands holding and pointing to the device he was constructing. A red crystal, gleaming in the light of the yellow lamp. Taylor couldn't look away. "But the emitter matrix – this is critical. It must be properly aligned...like so..."_

 **TAYLOR SNAPPED AWAKE.** He couldn't find a reason for it; the readout indicated they still had some time before arrival at destination. He felt clear headed, so the nap must have helped. He checked on Shayira once more. She had rolled over, but slept still. Seeing that she had moved gave him some small measure of comfort.

Returning to the garage, Taylor regarded the workstation with neutrality. It wouldn't hurt to _try_ , of course. In fact, he fully intended to. But as the moment drew nearer, he recognized the real trepidation that had built up in his subconscious. If he weren't able to do this, then it felt like a long thread of his life would have been wasted. A single strand of thought that had persisted from the point of origin in the bedroom of a young boy, looking out the window at the moons through the atmosphere, and all the twinkling stars beyond. The death of that dream was surprisingly painful to consider. Facing his own shortcomings, perhaps even more so.

With a deep breath, he gathered his energy and sat cross-legged on the floor, the crystal on a small cloth before him. Taylor had never meditated before, but he'd seen it performed. He thought he understood what it was to meditate, at least. A ritual of focus, and in this case specifically, he was to focus on the small object in front of him. Simple, but not easy.

At first, he found himself straining. Trying too hard to project something he didn't know he had into the foreign object. He found it felt better to go limp, but with no reference point as to what he should be experiencing, boredom and a nagging irritation set in. Taylor supposed that a little bit of guidance from Lanee would have been helpful, but maybe this was just part of the test itself. Still, how old were Jedi when they constructed their first sabers? They weren't children, that was certain. They must have been taught something of the art by that point. A length of time he wanted to be an hour past, but disappointingly only clocked in at twenty-two minutes. With a disgruntled sigh, Taylor picked up and slunk back to the cockpit.

 **THERE WAS A** chamber he used for meditation aboard his ship. Ven chose to adorn it with artifacts that reminded him of what he sought. Objects steeped in the powers of the past whispered to him as he heavily swayed his way into the room. The damage to his abdomen was not life threatening, and the pain was tolerable – usable, even. But it needed to be tended to all the same.

A time would come when this mortal flesh would no longer restrict him. That was the end game – apotheosis. And soon he would know the way. As Ven set about shedding himself of his armor, he set the holocron on a pedestal, and knelt before it. Reaching out, he touched it with the Force, and the relic responded, blossoming with blood red light that struck out across the room, like a distant star burst. Ven collected the pile of gauze next to him, infused with kolto. Eyes on the holocron, he set about the task of binding his wound, eagerly awaiting the presence within the thing to make itself known.

"Another one," crooned the raspy voice of the holocron's occupant. "A wounded one. What contemptible failure have you managed, knave?"

"Not death, as you have, Lord Silarith," Ven countered.

"True, but immortality is mufti-faceted. Tell me, if you died today, would anyone scamper about the galaxy in desperation for _your_ holocron?"

"Perhaps," Ven said. "But I won't be dieing."

"Soon? Or ever?" mocked Silarith.

"

Ever," Ven confirmed, confidence radiating in his tone.

"You are not the first Sith to probe the secrets of death. But all have failed. You are no different."

"But the Builders succeeded where we have failed, didn't they?"

The holocron processed this data.

"You know of the Builders. It's not often someone stirs me who has that kind of knowledge," Silarith said, somewhat subdued now.

"I've studied the Infinite Empire for years," Ven declared. Some of the artifacts in the room were beginning to take notice of names relevant to them being spoken out loud. "And in the course, I've come to know of your work. I desire to know more about it."

"Of course you do," Silarith mused. The triangular tip of his beard protruded from the black depths of his hood. "And know you shall."

 **HE HAD FORGOTTEN** in the anxiety of the moment, but now he remembered what the Rodian who had given him the box initially wanted him to do with it. It had slipped his mind to tell Lanee about it before she left, but by this point, he knew the holocron was definitely in the hands of someone who didn't want it to wind up where the Rodian did anyway. Still, weren't the few Sith that remained based on Korriban? Lanee had mentioned that this one, Ven, operated out in the lonelier reaches of the galaxy. Perhaps his affiliates back on Korriban coveted the holocron for themselves; Taylor didn't know much of the Sith, but he knew of their competitiveness, especially with in their own ranks. While it was present, Taylor sent a message to Lanee, detailing what he had remembered. Idly, he began to wonder what had fascinated that bastard so much within that recording.

A trill of tones alerted Taylor to the end of their journey. Coruscant at last.

Taking them out of hyperspace, the grand jewel of the Republic bloomed into view. The snaking bands of ships entering and exiting the planet crawled around the planet's exterior, and the auburn glow of the cityscape below washed up through the glass into his cockpit. It was, as always, a sight to behold. Taylor plucked in the entry coordinates, and Duststorm veered into the queue. A flight control broadcast welcomed him to the planet, and Taylor chose to let his ship automate the docking process. It would take sometime to pass through the slow crawl of inbound ships.

Now another task presented itself: Waking Shayira.

He had no idea where her family was on Coruscant, other than a garage. Of course, with millions of garages to choose from, narrowing it down would be daunting. She was sleeping still, and had not moved since the roll he had discovered sometime earlier. He sat on the edge of the mattress. They really weren't that comfortable. Gently, he scratched her back, running his fingers through her hair and up the back of her scalp. He tried softly to breach her wall of slumber with his voice. To his surprise, she seemed to respond.

"Shayira? You awake?" He waited. A definite groan escaped her lips. "How are you feeling?"

"Extremely hung over. Did you break up with me again?"

"Uh, no. You didn't drink. What exactly do you...remember?"

She sighed.

"Everything. But I don't want to." Taylor frowned. He didn't want either of them to remember. He laid down next to her, unsure of whether or not to hold her. She seemed rather unresponsive to his touch.

"We've moved. I don't know if you were aware. I brought us to Coruscant," he started.

"You what?" she said sleepily, rolling over to face him. Her face looked haggard, but her eyes were alert. "I know we talked about it, but isn't this a bit sudden?"

"You weren't well. The Jedi who was with us, she wanted me to take you -" Taylor hovered over the choice of his next few words. If he said he was delivering her to her family, things might not end well. "To the Temple here. Where they have healers."

"Am I that sick?" she asked, sounding worried.

"No, I mean, Lanee didn't say so. She said it was a necessary precaution."

"Lanee?"

"The Jedi."

"Oh," Shayira replied. She looked prepare to doze off again.

"Hey, I need to know how to contact your family. They should know you're here. And about...what happened."

"Maurice's Garage. Quadrant K-19. Sector V-26." Then she was out like a light.

"I can find that," Taylor said, standing.

 **SHE SPENT A** long time in isolation, and in that way, she felt that she mirrored the wayward Sith. It brought her closer to his psyche, so that she might better understand the paths he walked and the courses he chose. The echoes of the Dark Side were easy for her to hear – too easy, she had once feared, before the experience and comfort of a few more years. Her curiosity bound her to his trail. What he did and where he went bore a strangeness that Lanee could not dissuade herself from investigating. Something drove him, and the mystery of what that was drove her in turn.

Something ancient. Something so old that the time between then and now lay dead. There were traces in the air, and she felt them in the odd Outer Rim haunts she had tracked him through. Barren refueling stations and drift colonies. A series of murdered shopkeepers followed him, and it enabled Lanee to stalk the Sith through the stars. Always, the scene was the same: A shop littered with bits and pieces, its dead owner, and a computer system wiped clean of all records of transaction.

Tersi station was no different in any of those respects. Lanee had hoped this time she would experience a breakthrough, but the disappointing results of her duel were all that she had. The Sith was strong, but her Makashi had out-finessed his staunch Djem So. It was in the aftermath of that first clash, when the darker strength he possessed swirled to its apex, that Lanee saw the truth of his nature.

The Sith was mechanically augmented, with all of his limbs save for his left arm replaced with cybernetic components. Potentially more of his body was metal as well. It altered his connection to the Force, and in their fight she could sense a cavernous screaming coming from within the monster himself. It was a roar of rage and discontent, but upon meditation and introspection aimed at what she had felt, Lanee realized that it was not as she initially expected. She had seen people throughout the galaxy with cybernetics, and not all adapted well to their new lifestyle. Some resented and mourned the loss of their original limbs, but this Sith was different. It was as though the internal hatred he drew on for strength came from his own want for completeness, but that completeness was only possible through the destruction of his own flesh. Lanee had seen the catharsis he sought in the machinery, and it made her uncomfortable.

For a Force user to be separate from the biological systems that made him alive to begin with was strange, to say the least. The Force and life itself were deeply intertwined, one not being able to exist without the other. Lanee knew that it was harder, if not outright impossible, to channel certain aspects of the Force through bio-mechanical modes. Sith would often lose the ability to cast their dreaded Lightning without a natural conduit, for example. Each degree of separation from cyborg to living being infringed upon the efficacy of one's ability to wield the Force, as she understood it.

Lanee had options. The library in the temple on Coruscant could most likely satiate her desire for insight into the situation, but it wouldn't help her catch the Sith as much as staying in the Outer Rim. If he moved again, she needed to know and be able to respond quickly, especially now that he had the holocron in his possession. There was no way for Lanee to know for certain what knowledge that device would impart upon the Sith, but whatever it was, his ravenous and bloody search for the thing could only mean that it catered to his sanguine needs.

And in addition to these thoughts, the Jedi could not write off the astounding fact that Taylor had managed to land that shot. Such a feat was one in a million, and that was hardly an exaggeration. Too often, she had seen what others would mistake for coincidence to be the guiding hand of the Force. Taylor felt the call, and she knew it. It was why she supplied him with the crystal. It was not so strange that he was missed for his opportunity to train at the Academy. When he was young, the Order was still frail itself, fighting for any advantage it could garner after the reeling blow of the Jedi Civil War. It was stronger now, yet still no where near where it once was. If Taylor did prove to be a trainable asset, he would be a worthy ally to the Jedi indeed.

But this goal seemed more pressing. If this rogue Sith was allowed to acquire the power he was after, Lanee sensed a sweeping darkness would follow. She had seen it in her dreams: The black fog that leaked from the forgotten places amongst the stars, enveloping nameless worlds and quieting the thrum of the life within them. One potential Jedi weighed versus the cresting horrors of this dark wave – it was no contest. Lanee knew where her priorities must be. And from that conviction, she was driven forward. The only problem was finding the elusive Ven before he struck again.

But as the Force would have it, the gentle, pulsing alert of a message in her inbox appeared on her ship's console.

 **HE HAD TIME** to try more, waiting in that line. An hour passed – a real one. Taylor wasn't sure if anything fruitful had happened, but he felt as though something in his head had moved around or otherwise displaced itself. Throwing up his hands, he told himself why not, and positioned the crystal within the lightsaber. The majority of the work was done, as best he could tell. He trusted his memory. With bated anticipation, he slid the rubberized grip over the base containing the power cell, and then slid that portion gently into the top half. The crystal aligned beautifully. He triple checked the positioning of the emitter matrix. The metal body clicked together between the pressure of his hands.

This was it. He could sense it.

His finger brushed the ignition button. Taylor held the saber outward, pointing it at the far wall. Just press down now, he thought. And so he did.

Click. Nothing. Again. Click. Something sputtered, but no blade.

Disheartened, Taylor tore the saber apart on his desk, certain something had been misconfigured internally. Further inspection revealed nothing. The sinking suspicion that the crystal was at fault set in. He removed it, thinking to himself that this might be an exercise in futility.

"Whatever," he yawned, with a massive stretch. He blew a stream of air through pursed lips, wishing he would receive the docking coordinates already. This traffic was more of a nightmare than usual.

When they at last came, Taylor happily took Duststorm down through the atmosphere, and into the slipstream of flying transports towards his destination. With that act came a certain reluctance, however, because he had decided what followed the end of this short trip.

Shayira would not like it.

Her uncle's garage accepted his call, and an Aqualish mechanic thickly grunted for Taylor to list

his needs. When he requested to speak with Maurice himself, the alien growled a low protest, but stepped away from the camera to find his boss. Maurice was a dirty, hassled looking man with a pair of crusty blinders pulled up away from his face, unneeded as they were for anything other than soldering with bright plasma torches.

"Yes, I'm Maurice. Whatcha want?"

"I'm a friend of Shayira's," Taylor declared. "She's aboard my ship. I'm sorry to say that she isn't in the best of health?"

"The hell do you mean kid?" Maurice asked, suddenly looking worried. "Why isn't she on the comm?"

"She's bedridden – look, it'd be better if I could just bring her to you. She said you were her family."

"Damn right I am," he said, wiping his hands clean with a cloth. "Get her here right away. I don't like the way you're talking," he threatened. Taylor shrugged and switched off the comm. This was (one of the reasons) why he never took relationships too far. Other people's families never made him comfortable.

She was sitting up in the bunk; that was good. She turned and smiled at Taylor as he entered.

"I can see we made it," she said, looking back out the view screen at the orange and gold cityscape.

"Yep," Taylor affirmed. "We're in the queue for your uncle's garage, now. He didn't sound to thrilled when I told him what happened."

"I hope you didn't mention...well, Jedi," she said flatly. "He's not in the camp that appreciates them." She smirked. "Not like you."

"They're just so mysterious," Taylor mused mockingly. "The way they wear those robes – it gets me every time."

"I can tell," she said with a laugh. A wave of guilt swept through him. A part of Taylor had hoped she would still be sleeping when he passed her off to her family, so that he could slip out unnoticed. Then doubt crept into his thoughts. If he couldn't get the crystal to work, what point was there in his grand plan? He was no Jedi, and failing that test would nail shut the coffin on his dreams.

He took a steadying breath. This was Coruscant, home of the Jedi Temple. Someone there could help him, surely. As desperate as they had to have been for recruits...or even just an outreach program, to teach him the fine art of meditation. Perhaps such a thing existed?

Fate dictated another path open to him, however, when across the galaxy, his message was received, and Lanee made a fast decision.

"Answer, please," she whispered to herself, trying to channel calm into her fingertips that were drumming hard on the side of her pilot's seat. Patience was a basic tenant of the Jedi, but not of her lineage. It was her weakest feature. When Taylor appeared on her monitor, she was relieved. "I just received your message," Lanee said.

"Yeah, sorry, I forgot to mention that before," Taylor apologized.

"No need," Lanee responded. "It was a tumultuous day. But I need your help – if there's _anything_ more you can remember, a name - "

"Tulag Zan, in Dreshdae," Taylor repeated. Lanee had managed to jog his memory, somehow. Lucky for her.

"That helps tremendously," Lanee sighed. Now she had her heading.

"Why? You know that name?"

"No, but it gives me direction I wouldn't otherwise have." Lanee narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. "But Korriban is not a place for a Jedi. I'd never make it to the dock."

"Well, about that," Taylor said, scratching the back of his head. "I, uh, happen to have the necessary clearance to land there. To land anywhere, really, but Korriban qualifies as a 'there' so...I can do it."

"Right, because you're a smuggler!" Lanee piped up excitedly.

"Uh..." Taylor said, looking over his shoulder, hoping Shayira hadn't heard that.

"Oh, I apologize," Lanee said sincerely. Taylor was more concerned with how she'd known in the first place, but Jedi was a simple answer to most complicated questions.

"So, if you need, I can assist in that department," Taylor offered. "I mean, Korriban isn't the most thrilling tourist destination, but..." He wanted her help with the crystal.

"I shouldn't involve a bystander in Jedi business," Lanee said. "It's not proper conduct. It can get very dangerous."

"My line of work isn't exactly known for being good for one's well-being," Taylor uttered lowly, leaning into his camera. "I can handle myself."

Lanee, apparently, didn't need anymore convincing than that. After all, patience was something she sorely lacked.

"I assumed you've just made it to Coruscant," she guessed, opening up the screen to plug in hyperspace coordinates.

"That's right," Taylor replied.

"I'll meet you halfway."

 **IT WAS A** coarse thing, the language of the Rakata. Their guttural, staccato speech had grown to become a dull racket in the corners of Ven's meditation room. Often, they would ignore his presence, but these primitive holocrons had been awakened by the conversation Ven had with Silarith's hologram. They crowed at Ven with mocking voices, and it was the sound of the demented. They screeched of his weaknesses, some going as far as to urge him to suicide. Ven drowned out their sound in a sonic drape of the Force's doing, focusing intently on what Silarith had to say. Their lesson continued for hours, Ven sitting patiently on his knees, the words of the ancient vessel of knowledge pouring into him. The stories were fascinating, were one curious about such dark secrets of the galaxy. But there was one line of questioning that Ven continued to guide the holocron towards at each turn he was allowed to speak every hour or so. The location.

"Many facilities. Many. Each with an idea carved into them, their functions singular and pure. They spanned the cosmos, and the labor of slaves erected them on worlds far and away. Agriculture, manufacturing, terraforming..." Silarith droned on and on. The remarkable accomplishments of the Infinite Empire were nothing short of a romantic subject to the long dead Sith. But Ven was focused on one, and only one.

"Rakata warriors, in their savagery, would occasionally lose limbs," Ven began. The holocron was silent, awaiting more input. "There was a facility mentioned in the ancient texts that described a quiet place, tucked away, experimental in nature...a place where such losses could be rectified."

"It was more than a place of triage," Silarith began. "The Apex Ascent. Few warriors earned the distinction in battle to be allowed passage to that place." Ven's excitement reached a fevered crescendo, a pounding developing in his ears. At last. "Lesser warriors replaced their deficiencies with cybernetics. But the cybernetics grown in the laboratories at the Apex Ascent were special. Only deep commitment to the Rakata ways and distinction in many battles offered the pathway to such a high honor. Warriors would bathe in the pure, distilled Dark Side energies. At the molecular level, the effect was profound. A transformation some might say was sacred to the Rakata would begin to take hold, and the 'inefficiencies' the machines identified would begin to be corrected by a strict code. In extreme cases, a body entirely broken could be -"

Something strange happened. An opposing holocron within the room managed to roar out over Ven's damping, engaging directly with Silarith's own holocron. The speakers in the ceiling recorded the input, then piped it back down in translated fashion.

"Heretic. You divulge much, and deserve little. You betray our secrets; you must die. You must die. You must die." That last sentiment continued to be repeated.

"Interesting," Silarith mused. "It would seem that one has an allergic reaction to this subject. As you can see, Sith, it was a profound subject for the Rakata. They worshiped that apotheosis to perfection, though that is a secret I myself may be the last to know. It was said that in order to construct the Apex Ascent, a billion sacrifices all at once must be made in a condensed space in order to generate a large enough tear in the Force that could then be condensed down into the appropriate form factor. That core, that essence that summons the pain and rage, is a gateway to the Dark Side itself, and I don't mean that philosophically. It was a literal singularity born of the power of death."

A horrific description in another lifetime. But now just a footnote.

"And where was this Apex Ascent located?" Ven asked, working to conceal the eager hunger in his voice. The loudest Rakatan holocron screamed out in protest from across the room. Silarith grinned wide.

"I will show you the way."

 _ **HE WAS IN**_ _that damp place again, and the flicker of the candle as it dipped lower into the wax was fainter than before. Curled in the corner with his arms around his knees, Taylor focused intently on the insect crawling across the floor of his cage. It was the fulcrum of his attention, and it let him divert some small modicum of his faculties away from the hunched creature that worked slowly, yet tirelessly on his decrepit wooden desk._

 _"_ _People like you...people like me," he began, the drawl in his voice thick and intoxicating. "There comes a time when we must face our destiny. Not everyone has such a distinction. You should have pride." He said the last word as thought it were delectable._

 _"_ _Don't compare us," Taylor said tiredly. He drew traces in the dirt with his finger._

 _"_ _We're alike in the only way that matters," he continued on. "Not in personality. Or achievement. Or goals. Those don't matter to the Force."_

 _Taylor managed a faint smile. The Force. Once upon a time…_

 **WATCHING THE SUNRISE** on Coruscant meant watching the rays of light cascade across the towering buildings and refracting in an array of colors as diverse as the planet itself. Taylor stood atop Maurice's garage doing just that, reflecting internally on the words from that cage. When he was a child, becoming a Jedi Knight was the only thing that occupied his thoughts. A Jedi's life is sacrifice, he knew. But he didn't understand. He doubted, cynically so, that he did even now. Walking away from the life offered here, with Shayira, wasn't as hard as it should have been. That thirst for adventure that had made him take up smuggling manifested itself again, here, with this choice to go gallivanting off into the unknown. Whether or not he had what it took to become a Jedi was secondary.

"You're leaving," she said. Shayira was recovering well; a healer had been dispatched from the Temple that day. Maurice was a persistent badger of a man that Taylor knew he wouldn't miss after a single day, but he was encouraged by the protective nature of his niece.

"Lanee needs my help," Taylor said, turning to face her. He was somewhat surprised to see her up on the roof, wrapped in blankets still.

"She's a Jedi, Taylor. She needs another Jedi, maybe a few, if anything. What kind of Jedi asks a civilian for help on a mission?"

"Duststorm has the landing ID for..." What could he tell her, realistically? The most dreaded place in the galaxy? "A place she needs to go." Shayira scoffed.

"You can't even tell me where you're going..." she said, dejectedly looking at the ground. "I knew this was a pipe dream anyway. You won't ever change."

"I'll come back," Taylor pleaded, unsure if that was even near the truth. Lying. What a wonderful start to his potential Jedi career.

"You won't. Not for a while, at least. You're going to get swept off in some adventure, and that adventure will lead to another, and another, until you're far away from me again," she murmured with poetic sadness. The truth was, Taylor knew she was right. And despite the nasty texture of disappointment in his stomach, he also knew that, ultimately, this was what he wanted.

"If I don't do this, a lot of people are going to suffer through what you did. And worse. How can I sit by and let that happen?"

"This isn't your fight. It very rarely is, in my experience. But you choose to make it that way. You have some void in you that I can't fill," she said. Taylor saw a second dawning in her face, a fearful realization of Shayira that she never truly had the lease on him that she had thought kept bringing him back. She was just a rest stop in his galactic course.

"I have the landing credentials to get the Jedi where she needs to go," he repeated, choosing his words carefully. For some reason, Taylor found himself incapable of letting this pass, even as Shayira gave him every opportunity. He was torn between two worlds. "She needs my...expertise, okay? Jedi aren't perfect, without me -"

"Stop. Just stop," she shouted in a quavering, defeated voice. "Stop lying. To yourself, and to me. You're going because you _want_ to, not out of need. And you know what? That's fine. You do what you want. I'm don't have any hold over you. I never did." She turned to leave, and Taylor's vocal chords were stunned. When she disappeared in the doorway, he felt nothing. Just that emptiness she had seen in him. The space he couldn't escape.

 **LANEE WAITED FOR** Taylor at a small trader's outpost. The hyperspace route to the sector of the galaxy once occupied by the old Sith Empire was a lonely one, comparatively. The road few traveled, and even fewer returned from. While the Republic claimed no responsibility for travelers who wished to navigate those desolate stretches of space once lit ablaze by war, they knew that the majority of people who dared to traverse these lanes cared little for the Republic anyway, being sympathizers of those darker factions in the universe, or neutral scavengers looking for diamonds amongst the dust.

Scavenging. If she found herself in the right mood, there were good memories buried there. They used to walk about the ruins, climbing, jumping, laughing. Dantooine's somber serenity often presented itself as pure boredom to children, and they were no exception. To walk among the empty, cool halls of the fabled Jedi, pockmarked with spindles of sunlight from the holes in the ceiling, swells of dark shadows tucked away from the summer heat; it was a tantalizing prospect. Lanee swore could soak in the past through her skin, feeling out the fabric of a narrative woven long ago. The ghosts of the halls of the destroyed academy spoke in a way that she could hear, but never frightened her. There was a calming wisdom in that place that soothed her soul. Years later, she would come to realize that it was the call of the Force that tugged at her heart. And her dear friend's as well, but his path unfolded quite differently, didn't it?

Her pensive trance was broken when she felt Taylor's arrival in the Force. It was a bump on the smooth stream of the flow of life around her. Hope and doubt intermingled to describe his presence, but there was something transformed about him this time. She saw him walking heavily towards her down the path to the seating area of the terminal where they docked. Identifying exactly what had changed was unusually hard for her – Lanee could not tell if Taylor had gained or lost something. Either way, there was a determination to his step, and she found it unexpectedly comforting, even for a Jedi. He nodded when he saw her seated in the skeletal plasteel chairs, flanked by two sad looking plants. She nodded back, smiling. The little outpost was not so busy, and the air was quiet. It seemed neither of the unlikely pair wanted to disturb that peace.

They boarded Duststorm shortly after, having gathered a few supplies. Lanee never stopped trying to probe Taylor's motivation covertly, but she found only a staunch resolution. It was very different from the bright optimism and probable slight naivety of the man who had confessed his childhood dream to become a Jedi on this very ship just days before. She decided to ask him what happened, but he surprised her first with a wordless invitation to the ship's garage once more.

"I owe you a lot," Taylor began. His tone was direct. Concise.

"I owe you as well, Taylor. And we both owe the galaxy something more. I'm grateful for your assistance in this matter, for I fear that we are the only ones capable of stopping Ven."

"Yeah. But I wanted to let you know – I wanted to hear myself say it. I won't be a burden. I know you just need my landing ID. But there's more to this than that. For me." Lanee looked at him quizzically.

"I value your experience, rest assured," Lanee declared earnestly.

"And I want you to value my prowess, too," Taylor said. He reached to his belt, grasping an object.

"Taylor, I -"

"Just watch," he said, drawing his weapon. He held it before him, matching Lanee's gaze.

And so the telltale sound burst through the quiet ship, as Taylor ignited a gleaming yellow lightsaber.

 **TO BE CONTINUED...**


	2. Not The Same

**CHAPTER TWO: NOT THE SAME**

 **WEAPONIZED VANITY. THAT** was what he sought.

Different, in comparison to his master. Whereas he clamored for completion through transformation, Ryker saw only ugliness in the path. Power, to be sure, but of a variety he loathed. Those who wanted power without aesthetic desired potential without control, a component he viewed as equally important. Ryker himself was no stranger to the art of narcissism; after all, who could call himself a true Sith that did not consider himself in the eyes of those who would be made his servants? What avenues of manipulation did they seal themselves off from by lust for raw strength without an enviable form factor? He wanted a smoothness to his power, and in that way, he differed greatly from contemporaries. In that way, Ryker knew he could surpass them.

Aboard their small slaver ship, commandeered and re-appropriated for more suitable dual-passenger travel, Ryker kept to himself. The master's meditation room was a place he dared not tread, but for many hours now, Ven had not emerged from his studious endeavors. Ryker felt the dark call of an old knowledge creeping its way through the ship, like the imprints of ancient runes had etched their way into the walls themselves. But he could not decipher the information being delivered to his master, and that was a source of frustration for him. The quest to find the Rakatan facility that would secure Ven's immortality was not so important to Ryker as finding a way to exploit the process. He foresaw many potential opportunities to sabotage Ven's cathartic moment. His master, Ryker believed, was too blinded by pride and power to guard himself thoroughly against the nefarious. The apprentice was still far off from being able to best his master in a traditional duel, as was the Sith way. But then again, backstabbing and scheming were also classics long employed by their kind. And Ryker was _good_ at them.

The dirtying of his hands was something he had hated since childhood.

Years had passed since he had joined Ven on the path of the Sith. It was a natural step forward for him at the time. The dullness of his home world had worn him thin, and the fragility of his patience left him looking for extraplanetary activities. When the quiet man in the hooded robes had passed through his settlement, Ryker had felt a strange aura emanating from him that elicited a sense of wonder that he had long since forgotten. Others seemed frightened of his shadowed nature, but Ryker merely saw possibilities. Of course, _she_ had seen the so-called "truth": That a foul nature was at the man's core, and in every way he was sewing the seeds of something terrible. Thus the two diverged completely. He smiled at how different their paths had scrawled across the galaxy. Despite their separation, Ryker never felt animosity towards her; merely the hope that one day, his old friend might come to see things the way he had when he left Dantooine for Korriban and the Sith Academy.

 _ **"THE WAY OUR**_ _order used to do things had a certain charm to it, don't you think?" mused the kindly Master Zemner. He was old and weathered, a relic of a previous generation's Jedi, but a font of knowledge nonetheless. She was proud to call him Master, and their bond in the days following her leaving home came to be her source of strength as she learned to embrace the Jedi Code. It was a hard thing for a young girl to do, but the smiling lines of her master's whiskered face was proof positive of its truths._

 _"Master, when does the Order know when a change is necessary? I'm curious of the criteria," a young Lanee asked._

 _"That's quite the question. But I'm old enough to have something of an answer," he said with a jovial chuckle. He was, by far, the most whimsical Jedi she had ever met. "We don't like change. We hate it! Though we tell ourselves we don't. Hate is the Dark Side's lure, what we strive to be above, but if there is another term in the galaxy accurate enough to describe this order's allergy to change I have yet to find it."_

 _"But still, it happens. Sometimes incrementally, and sometimes all at once. The latter of the two is what scares the Council the most, I think. It means something has gone wrong in the works. Perhaps a war has cut down our numbers, as is the recent case. Sometimes we face the stark realization that we've been wrong in passing our judgements, as we were with the Exile. We adjust in response. We remember, often times painfully so, and we seek to heal the wound. So the answer, ultimately, is that wielding the Force is a responsiblity so great, that often times we get too caught up in the act to see the damage we're doing. But the damage is never negligible; so we make mistakes, and then we move to repair them."_

 _"That sounds like a life lesson," Lanee commented._

 _"As are all good teachings of the Jedi. Be the reflection of the world you want to see, and the world will begin to mirror you," Master Zemner stated serenely._

 **HIS LIGHTSABER. THERE** was something immensely satisfying in the statement. It swung from the belt loop, the gentle weight banging into Taylor's thigh – it made him feel strong, as opposed to merely clever. He wanted to put it to the test, but he supposed he shouldn't want that. What was he allowed to want, now? That was worth some ponderance. He had to conduct himself differently if this was the lifestyle he wanted, but moreover, he had to _think_ in a new way. Growth he could accept, but the idea of becoming someone else entirely thrust a spear of melancholy into his stomach. He was afraid to watch that little boy who had dreamt dreams of Jedi heroism die.

It must have been easier for Lanee, then, who had been trained almost since birth. She was groomed for this life, though in many respects, Taylor didn't feel so far behind. The isolationism of deep space travel, coursing along hyperspace lanes with the prickle of paranoia that came from harboring illegal wares was not unlike the constant guarded nature of the Jedi. These days, with their numbers scarce, the Council placed a precious value upon each Knight they had, and the police work that the Order might have done in years past gave way to something more akin to invisible guidance of the galaxy. They chose not to risk showing themselves in certain places or capacities, as the Sith were very much alive, though stunted as their growth may have been. Their attempted reconstitution was a thing the Jedi Council on Coruscant knew of, but was unable to stop. If both factions were to engage in another war, it was likely their fetus-like states would not be able to survive the impact. And so, they chose to wait.

Taylor felt a measure of pride in the idea of being counted towards the regrowing Jedi Order. He wanted to aid in its return to the glory days where his favorite childhood stories were set. Lanee had praised his eagerness to help her brethren, but warned against fantasy. Already the chiding began – Taylor didn't much mind yet, but he knew of himself that eventually it would began to chafe. He intended to have reached a better place internally before that point.

"There's no time," Lanee had explained, when Taylor asked about training on Coruscant. "Korriban is our top priority. I fear that we don't have any luxury when it comes to waiting. Ven will move hard and fast as soon as he is able."

"I figured," Taylor had said with some disappointment. "Don't worry. I'll follow your lead."

"Korriban is a treacherous place, and not just for Jedi," Lanee said darkly. "I have never been – nor had I intended to go – but all Padawans are warned of its call. Its quiet at first, the whispers of the dead, but the allure of the immense power in those tombs..." her voice trailed off. Taylor thought he saw her shudder. "It is a place where the Force is at its darkest. Often, I have trouble believing the thing I draw on every second could become what it has on that planet."

"I always thought the Force was a neutral thing," Taylor said, looking up at her from the pilot's seat. "It just depended on what you used it for."

"There are some scholars who would argue that. But most Jedi, especially the older ones alive now, who fought in the Civil War – they know a different truth. They have seen the colors of the Force, independent of flesh. There are some places in the galaxy where this is more evident than others."

"And Korriban is one of them," Taylor finished grimly. He had always shied away from jobs that took him to the sector. His carefully cultivated intuition suggested that the planet was not something worth the trouble. Nevertheless, he had the tags to land in Dreshdae, and so off he and his new Jedi companion went, Duststorm hurtling through blue hyperspace towards the quiet promise of destiny.

And still that intuition tingled.

 **A SWEETNESS IN** the air that he could taste. The meditation room had fallen silent and dark, and now the high strings of silence filled his ears. Ven sat on his knees alone in the void that was the room around him, reaching out into the depths of space beyond the walls of his ship, feeling the echo of the galaxy. The fibrous strings of the needs and wants of trillions of sentient lives teemed in that infinite black vacuum. He could pluck one at any time he chose, yet he refrained, skulking in the shadows. Only on rare occasion was it time to demonstrate his terrible power, but like a true Sith waiting for ascension amongst their ancient coven, he only did so when he was sure of his own advantage. It frustrated him. Ven knew he was strong, but there were some above him still. He had glowered in the shade of the tombs of Korriban, languishing over secrets he had been beaten to. Notes of power still clung to the stale air, hidden from the arid heat of the Valley of the Dark Lords, but they were not his to hear. That is, until _he_ had tapped him on the shoulder...

 _ **RISE, ACOLYTE. RISE**_ _and face me." The voice was weathered and old, much like the rough sandstone blocks of the tomb. Ven, nascent Sith, did as he was instructed by his superior. He was surprised to see Lord Veshiram standing with his hands folded behind his back in the dim glow of the tomb's entrance, the particulate of dust shimmering around him._

 _"My Lord," Ven said, kneeling in respect._

 _"I said rise," Veshiram repeated, this time with an edge. Ven complied."What do you seek here?" he asked, a lightness in his tone. He began to stroll about the entry chamber, regarding the glyphs on the walls with mild curiosity._

 _"Ancient knowledge. Martial, specifically," Ven replied. He resisted the urge to itch the crease between his prosthetic arm and the connecting skin._

 _"You may relieve whatever discomfort the metal brings you in my presence," Veshiram said, relaxed. He was powerful indeed to sense such a minute disturbance in Ven's thoughts._

 _"I curse the weakness of my body," said Ven, rubbing the itch. "I loathe my own failure."_

 _"Failures of your nature are failures_ of _nature," Veshiram instructed. "You have no one to blame, but you can stoke those flames into hate. Which, of course, is quite usable." Veshiram paused to consider a particular glyph, running his fingers over the shape. "But frailty...heh. So many of us choose to hate it, as though it would make us stronger. That is how we open ourselves to deception."_

 _"The cripple represents danger in our oldest lessons," Ven cited._

 _"You study well. I suppose that would be the prerogative of one such as you," Veshiram remarked. "Your contemporaries best you in combat. I have seen you in the training room."_

 _"I have no excuse," Ven submitted._

 _"Oh, but you do. It would be unreasonable to expect someone so new to the world of the four-limbed to fight as well as those who have years to the contrary," Veshiram explained. Ven felt something stir. It was uncommon for a Sith, especially a Master like Lord Veshiram, to excuse such weakness._

 _"Combat is such an important thing for you younglings. You try again and again to prove yourselves against each other, thirsting for the sound of plasma meeting plasma. Your sabers are your ego manifest. Only with age do you come to realize that there are more efficient – and satisfying – ways to exert your power. The lack of subtlety, unfortunately, makes for a lack of popularity." Ven listened and watched intently, absorbing. "But you...your potential is greater than most. I have come to show you the ancient ways. I intend to make you my apprentice."_

 _Ven was struck dumb. He had not expected to find a master this soon, if ever. Let alone one so distinguished as Veshiram._

 _"I accept your offer with utmost gratitude," Ven said, bowing. "But I feel compelled to ask, Master – why me?"_

 _Ven never forgot the devious grin that sprawled across his new Master's old face._

 _"As I said, you study well."_

 **VEN'S TRANCE ENDED** smoothly, if abruptly. He stood, the groundswell of restored energy surging from his feet to the top of his head as he stretched. The rejuvenation of his wound had gone well. Now it was time to act.

The Apex Ascent. He mulled the word around in his brain. He wasn't used to having a title for the nameless thing he had craved for so long. It evoked a vision of grandeur; Rakatan warriors, lining up in sanctified unity for their final transformation. Imagining the sacred catharsis for himself was exhilarating. A familiar itch crept back to the seam where his prosthetic arm attached to the shoulder. It had been quite sometime since he had felt it, but he paid little attention to why it had returned. Soon it would be gone for good.

Ven drifted through the unlit halls of his ship towards the cockpit. He knew now where to go, and the intent in his walk was evident to his apprentice as he wordlessly passed him by. Ryker knew to follow Ven to the navcomputer, where he watched quietly as his master punched in coordinates to an unfamiliar region. It was not in Republic space; that was certain. Ven could sense the watchful eye of his apprentice, calculating the vector. Ryker was the quiet observer, always. He shrouded his thoughts carefully. What he thought about Ven's plan was hidden well, and the master could not sense it. But it didn't matter. Ryker's role to play in the coming events was too necessary, and only he could perform it.

"I'm not familiar with this system, Master," Ryker murmured softly, running his fingers over the screen. He stood close by Ven's shoulder, a habit that made the Sith curious as to the younger man's intentions.

"Neither am I," Ven said. Ryker was unused to the clarity of his master's voice without the veiled buzz of the mask he customarily wore. "I don't think it has been seen by eyes like ours in millenia."

Ryker thoughtfully cocked his head in the blue light, folding his arms. "What kind of world is it? I've made the preparations you asked for – envirosuits...whatever the climate, we will be able to traverse the surface."

"Good," Ven remarked solidly. "I have no knowledge of what we're walking into."

 **"THE WARM SUN** on your face. It kisses your cheek gently. You have a choice. You can turn to embrace it fully, and with each inch you move, the warmth grows. It caresses your chest, your neck, your arms. Your body fills with light. It resonates in your deepest core. And there is utter tranquility."

Lanee's description of the Force was specific. Taylor appreciated that. It was such an esoteric thing to grasp, and as she guided his meditation, he felt an inkling of something different cross his awareness. It wasn't the warm sunlight she described, though. It was something beneath a surface he didn't know was there, like a large body in the water brushing up against him. Normally, he was sure that would disturb him, but this time he only felt anticipation. Taylor wanted so badly to feel the Force that any interpretation would do.

"You're there," Lanee said with soft encouragement. "I can feel it. And it feels you. Don't turn away from it."

"I don't even know what that means," Taylor said, his eyes closed. He was grasping into the void behind his eyelids, struggling to catch the elusive sensation he had found just moments ago. Frustrated air escaped his lips.

"It's alright. Open your eyes," Lanee instructed. Taylor did so, screwing up his mouth in a huff. He looked at his new teacher with downtrodden defeat. "It takes many experiences just like you had to finally breach the gap."

That made Taylor feel somewhat better. He hadn't been expecting to pick up the ropes quickly by any means, but the sheer difficulty of the task had caught him off-guard. The hitch in his brain where he hung his Jedi aspirations made him feel as though it should all be easy, and that indications otherwise suggested a disappointing reality.

"You _can_ do this. I know," Lanee assured him. "I wouldn't waste our time if I didn't feel the pull. The Force is asking something of you. That is apparent." Taylor nodded. The pair rose to their feet, having been seated in the cool med bay.

"I don't want to make this harder on myself by being impatient," Taylor commented. "But this is more complicated than fixing a hyperdrive engine."

"It's not the normal kind of work a smuggler might do," Lanee said with a tiny, wry smile.

"I move weight," Taylor said with a proud shrug. "But with the help of Duststorm - " he thumped the wall of his ship with an open palm, "- and not my mind."

"Fair enough. The Force doesn't tend to care about the walks of life those sensitive to it come from, though. It just not make moral judgements. The call is the same to all that would hear it – it's what people do with the Force in their lives that matters. Nothing before."

"Nothing, huh?" Taylor said, seating himself tiredly on the steel bench next to the stack of medpacs.

"There is redemption for all in the Light. Even the Lords of the Sith drenched deepest in shadow have found their way back."

"But what would the Jedi have done in the past? When they were the galactic police force, and they had found me guilty of crimes against the Republic for transporting some rich Alderaanian's booze?"

"Part of me is glad we are no longer in such times," Lanee remarked, somewhat wistfully. "I've always felt the work of our order should be more...spiritual. Less political. People might see us differently, then."

"The amount of times I've heard someone bash, 'Jedi mysticism,' though," Taylor pointed out.

"No one likes to be preached to, save for those who know just how lost they are," admitted the Jedi. "It's getting people to that point that is so difficult."

"You sound like you know something about that," Taylor perceived.

"Perhaps I do," she said with a sad smile. He didn't wield the Force yet, but even Taylor could see past that one. He didn't press any further.

The small number of days preceding their arrival on Korriban seemed to delete themselves hastily. Taylor had wanted to feel like he had a solid, if diminutive, grasp of something tangible for him to carry with him to the stronghold of the Sith. The confidence that his instincts and other skills could carry him was there, but he wanted to feel forward motion, and this was the start. Lanee seemed to agree, accelerating his lessons. When the Korriban system was near, however, she admitted to him her doubts.

"I don't entirely know if I was correct in attempting to train you yet," she confided in him, sitting across the Pazaak table. A mug of tea twisted between her hands, and her gaze was down into the well of green liquid.

"Are you afraid I'll be more easily made?" Taylor asked, suspecting that to be her concern. She didn't want a fresh Padawan on Korriban, for obvious reasons.

"Yes. We won't go near the Academy, but even in Dreshdae there will be...observant people. I'm worried that a tertiary understanding of the Force puts you at more risk than even a powerful Jedi Master, because they know the techniques needed to shield and mask their presence."

"I'm pretty good at going unnoticed," Taylor replied earnestly. "And I can't even move a pebble with the Force. Yet," he added.

"If you stray too close to a trained Sith, however, he will feel out your sensitivity. Strong as your cover story may be, it won't matter. They may attempt to recruit you, even."

"I won't ever join the Sith," Taylor bitterly stated. Lanee raised an eyebrow at him.

"There's some collision with them in your past, isn't there?" she asked. Taylor nodded. He had been meaning to tell her the story. It was not only fair, but important that he do so. In his judgement.

"I've...seen a real Sith before. Tersi station wasn't the first time. And that didn't hold a candle to my first encounter." A candle. He knew his subconcious had selected that phrase. That flickering wick, dancing like a ghost...

 _ **THE BAR WAS**_ _a softly lit cove of galactic diversity, gentle waves of noise consisting of a wealth of alien languages mingling together infusing each inch. Wafting blue smoke drifted up to the ceiling and its wan lights. Crooning instruments belted out elongated tunes in sprawling, swinging bursts.T aylor knew such places well, and the comfort of familiarity lulled him. He drank that night to celebrate, his first true job having been a lucrative success. It seemed that, finally, he was doing what he had always wanted – moving._

 _The toxin in his drink saw an end to all movement._

 _Later on, he would think back on that night and cycle through what little he could remember of the people he interacted with. Taylor's best guess was that it was the flirtatious Twi'Lek, the one with long orange fingers brushing sensually along his table, that had managed to sleight-of-hand a tab of something into his glass. Ultimately, it didn't matter. The end result was what was important._

 _The Sith had rummaged about in his memories, tearing them apart for something Taylor couldn't fathom. Surely a Sith master cared not for the insignificant trifles of a smuggler. No, of course not. Taylor felt the elderly sorceror's intentions as they probed his secrets, roaring through the corridors of his mind and leaving him an empty vessel for a long time after. When he grew tired of picking apart Taylor's psyche, he would leave him in that dank cell, fiddling with his project. A lightsaber for his apprentice. Taylor wondered what damage it took for one to apprentice himself to such a hideous creature of a man._

 _"Our time together is almost up," he said in his scraggly voice. The lightsaber was nearing completion. Only a few more snapping locks in the chassis were required._

 _"So you'll kill me?" Taylor asked with tired and jaded suspicion._

 _"No, you' ll be free to go. My plans for you are far grander than death." He whirled on Taylor, grinning profusely and twisting the silver saber hilt in his arthritic hands. "You won't remember this, of course, but the lingering influences...those shall remain."_

 _"If you ever want something ran around Republic space, let me know, then," Taylor offered sarcastically, sinking his chin into his chest as though that were all he needed to do to sleep. It wasn't._

 _The Sith ignored his quips. "Fear not. I know from whence stems your bitterness, what wags your tongue:That loneliness inside...that great resounding void...soon enough, it will be filled."_

 **LANEE STUDIED TAYLOR'S** face for a solid minute. Taylor would look away normally, but he felt as though something was stretching out from her, touching his own consciousness. He let her do her diagnostic. The worried expression on her face in turn worried Taylor, and he finally re-adjusted in his seat.

"That must be a painful memory to recall," she said at last, sympathetically.

"I manage. I don't think that whatever he tried to do to me worked, though. He said I wouldn't remember any of our encounter...but I do."

"That is a good point, and a curious question," Lanee said. "Still, to meet a Sith like that and be allowed to live...speaking honestly, it would be less troublesome if he had killed you."

"I can see that," Taylor admitted.

"The problem is that I...well," she said, struggling. "I'm ashamed to say that I can't sense any trace of what he might have left in your mind. You are merely grey to me in the way that the vast majority of people I meet are. Perhaps it is a lack of experience on my part."

"I think I'd prefer it if there just wasn't anything to be found," said Taylor. But he had felt the power of that old Sith as it rent him asunder, and he knew that someone of that magnitude wielded just as much potential to be subtle as overt.

"When we depart Korriban, we shall return to Coruscant. I want the masters at the Temple to examine you," Lanee mandated. Taylor nodded his agreement. "Regardless, Taylor, you should take pride in the fact that your life continued after that night. The Force is strong with you, to be sure."

A warm glow of pride swelled in his chest. Those were the words he'd been waiting twenty years to hear.

Now if only he could just get the Force to do _something_.

When Korriban was imminent, the pair aboard the Duststorm felt a mounting tension begin to coil its way through the ship. It wasn't a pleasant prospect, what they were facing, and they knew it. Taylor figured he had been in worse galactic creases before, but never had he felt so conspicuous as he did in travelling with a Jedi. The planet was a little red orb, but watching it enlarge as the ship drew closer, the tickle of intuition crept up the back of Taylor's neck softly. He suddenly became very aware of his surroundings, and particularly of the quiet aura that permeated the cockpit. Lanee was resting, meditating properly, and Taylor would have to rouse her shortly. But he sat in his chair, folded arms wrapping him in tiny comfort, and listened. As though from across a vast distance, a minute sound reached his ears, destined for him and him alone. The pitch was low, and Taylor felt the vibrating thrum just behind his ears.

His breathing became quickened. His skin prickled, the tiny hairs standing on end, feeling like he had just passed through a static storm. Above all sensations, however, was the unshakable taste of old, sealed away air. This was something ancient calling to him. Something very old, and very powerful. Taylor was enthralled, unable to move even an inch in his seat.

Korriban had given him his first true glimpse of the Force.

 **THERE WAS MUCH** Sith symbolism in slavery. Chains. The breaking of. To bathe oneself in the Dark Side was a reconstitution that asked for little at the outset, but progressively more and more. At first, he had considered there to be a great irony there. The physical toll Ven had seen prolonged Dark Side exposure take on the withered husks of the elderly Sith that flitted about the Korriban Academy had shocked him at first, but as he realized their toxic symbiosis granted a power unable to be found elsewhere, he acquiesced. He gave up his body.

But the Dark Side had made him strong. The muscles on his body were still his to cultivate, and the pure injection of hatred that coursed through his veins after brief summons energized his tissues. Ecstatic burning filled his system when he called upon his dark power. It was beyond the mere indulgence of lashing out when in anger; this was a shift to another side of the universe, where such feelings were made manifest into ugly beasts that made lesser men tremble. To make himself whole was a dream of strength. The Apex Ascent became his obsession.

When the sensors indicated a planetary mass in the vicinity, Ven snapped his attention towards the controls with feverish interest. The Rakatan world was off all star charts, hidden from everything living in this galaxy that could fly a ship, and had been for millenia. The holocron's hyperspace coordinates had been correct. A lush green sphere, small yet verdant, bloomed into view from behind the cockpit canopy. Ven allowed himself a single moment to appreciate the journey, then engaged manual control of his ship, thrusting it towards the atmosphere. Ryker, seated in the co-pilot's chair to his right, was expressionless. The call of destiny was so often a small thing, and it might squeak by unnoticed to all but those with the power and will to perceive it. Across the wide ocean of space, two ships, two destinies. Linked by fate. Driven by desire.

 **STARK, CLEAN, BRIGHT.** Those were not descriptors Lanee had expected to be able to attribute to Dreshdae, but it wasn't so long ago that opulence had flowed through the little settlement. Revan's Sith had carved out success for themselves, and the evidence still showed. Dreshdae was not the hive of villainy one might expect in such a distant whole of the galaxy, but instead a place that seemed in command of efficiency and order. The Czerka corporation, unsurprisingly, found a welcoming home for its sector headquarters in Dreshdae, a place with just as suspect morality and a lack of ethical concern. They were one of the primary movers in the settlement, outfitting its denizens and responsible for the majority of commerce. Lanee traveled quickly and lightly, her simple brown hood hiding her face. She dared not draw upon the Force here. Her thoughts were jumbled, but intentionally so, in order to obfuscate them and protect her identity. The Sith she had to fear the most were in the Academy down the trail, a short hike from the outskirts of Dreshdae, but even still there were lingering Force users amongst the populace. Were she to be identified, she would be swarmed in an instant.

Korriban's weight pressed into her feelings with languorous ease. A darkness peculiar to the planet assaulted her senses and cast in doubt her ability to remain at peak capacity to perform her duties as a Jedi. It was a source of frustration she constantly fought to dispel. At times, she felt as though the tombs themselves down in the valley were aware of her presence on the arid surface, and even though their mysterious doors laid sealed, the whispers of the dead still managed to crawl out and reach her. Lanee shuddered at that particular imagery.

People still filtered down to the planet, even in the wake of the war. Mostly, they were people who didn't want to be found. Seedier elements, to be sure. Despite the manicured aesthetic of the settlement, there was of course no police unit. They tracked new marks with subtle glances, but Lanee was aware of their presence. They posed little danger to her directly, but she didn't want to be forced to reveal her Force prowess or, even worse, her bright blue lightsaber to defend herself. That was where the real danger dwelled.

Her thoughts turned to Taylor, who she had a fair suspicion was handling his own task much better than she was hers. The two had split up, with Taylor searching out the man known as Tulag Zan with a fake delivery of the holocron. They needed to know the buyer was, or more likely, who this Zan character was buying the device _for_. Lanee sensed something past the murk, but it was shrouded yet to her. Contact would have to be made to learn anything further.

Lanee's goal was different; she was to seek out information about the true menace himself, Ven. Bandying about the name of such a powerful Sith was dangerous, but she felt as though the correct questions in the correct places may yield something of value. He seemed a hard figure for anyone to forget.

In times such as these, with the question of forbearance burning in her skull, Lanee turned to thoughts of far-away Dantooine and its idyllic serenity, even moreso than the Jedi code. She found her peace in the still imagery she kept tucked away in her mind for occasions where she found her steps heavier and her heart harder. She unclenched her teeth and let loose the knots building in her shoulders. She breathed, becoming more aware of the act than before. The oxygen flowed in and out, and soon it became all she heard. The scattered, meandering paths cut through the long, yellow grass. Azure sky, expanding endlessly, and all the little whisps of clouds that floated within. The drifting Brith in the air, and the coolness of their massive passing shadows as they gusted their wings overhead. All of it, the sights, the sounds, the scents – they came flooding back to her, just as pristine and perfect as she remembered it. And with that calmness, her resolve was restored. A Jedi walked the streets once more in a place where it had been a long time since.

 **TAYLOR FELT AS** though he wasn't making any progress.

The first cantina he had visited, one of several in Dreshdae, had absolutely no idea who Tulag Zan was. If that Rodian back on Tersi had expected him to find a man by name alone, then surely he had meant, "go to all the local bars and ask for this likely criminal, as you know to do by virtue of the fact that you are one yourself." Surely. How else would he expect Taylor to behave? A sinking feeling that perhaps Zan wouldn't surface without the holocron in Taylor's possession ate away at him, but it was a possibility he had to exhaust first. There really was little choice in the matter.

The sun seemed weak on the planet's surface, like its light was straining to cross the distance. Occasional gusts carrying the thin red dust of the ground would roll through the streets. It reminded him of home to an extent, but he knew the truth was different. He had seen the way Lanee differed from her usual demeanor before they even landed. There was an intensity to her gait that there had not previously been. On some level, he was beginning to understand her trepidation; there were isolated moments in which he swore he felt the bygone wrinkles of paranoia and nausea he experienced when caged by the Sith. Lingering, floating points in the air that carried ghosts of unpleasant sensations. They passed quickly, but their recurrence was unsettling. It was as though his presence there was incorrect somehow, an offense to something hidden from sight.

Cantina number two yielded much more interesting results.

Upon entering, he quickly snapped his focus to the figure in muted colors, alone in the back. There was a datapad on the table before him, and the remnants of a few drinks on the table. Work was being done. It was an odd choice for an office. The patron himself was off somehow, but it didn't take Taylor long to realize what the issue his brain was taking with the man's features – the striking yellow eyes. A Sith favorite, apparently. To see him sitting there so casually was bizarre for Taylor. The aura the man gave off was something that, in a different context and space, would evoke uneasiness as the slightest. But here, it was a predator in its natural habitat. Disphoria clawed through his stomach as the smuggler realized just how far in he had gotten himself.

Taylor slipped up to the bar and ordered a drink. In his consideration, he was good at hiding in plain sight, and indeed, as he watched the busy Sith in the corner, he felt secure enough. His next task was to drop Zan's name and see what floated to the surface, but that upset him somewhat. What if the Sith heard? What if he didn't like the guy?

He briefly brushed against the shape of his lightsaber strapped to his thigh. Lanee had instructed him to leave it in the ship, as it would likely only serve to draw deadly attention his way, and is proficiency with the thing was no where near where it needed to be on a planet such as this. Taylor had acknowledged her suggestion, but didn't quite follow through with it, quietly tucking the thing into a holdout holster. Of course, he still had his blaster pistol on the other leg, but the last time he'd used it against a red lightsaber...

He paused to think of Shayira, and ponder his own stupidity for choosing this life. With a sigh, he downed the rest of his drink, but dissapointingly noted that no amount of alcohol would give him the liquid courage needed for this mess.

"So..." Taylor began, twiddling the clay cup. The bartender, a scowling young man with a prim, fresh hair cut strode over to reach for a refill. "I was supposed to meet someone here. For a delivery?"

"I don't know, sir," the bartender answered coolly, spraying a new drink.

"The guy said this was a favorite of his, though. Zan?"

"Hmm?" the bartender asked, not looking up.

"Zan, Tulag...err..."

"Never heard the name, sir."

"Right," Taylor said, thumping the counter. He quickly reached for his pocket to pay for his drinks.

"And where might you be going in such a hurry?" asked a voice, cold like iron. Taylor darted a glance at the Sith's table. He was, of course, no longer sitting there. He nodded, understanding.

"Well, I've got shipments to make. So I figured I'd quit wasting my time here, and -" Taylor was interrupted by a strong hand on his shoulder.

"The name you know is not a name you _should_ know," mused Taylor's new Sith drinking buddy. "Why don't you tell where you heard it?" That prickle of intuition was not a full-blown brushfire of warning. He was suddenly too scared to try to talk his way out of this one.

"Oh, you know. Around." Taylor bashed his elbow back into the Sith's nose, and was pleased to find that it connected with a satisfying break of cartiladge. The Sith recoiled, hands on his face. Taylor kicked his stool over and sprinted for the door, but it slammed shut before him. He whirled about. The now injured Sith, nursing the flow of blood from his shattered nose with one hand and holding a silver saber hilt in the other, had sealed him in.

"That," growled the man, "Was ill-advised." The saber ignited.

The bar was filled with a few other folks, none of which seemed particularly concerned about what was unfolding. Some watched with mild interest, while others seemingly didn't even care. This must have been a common occurence, Taylor reasoned. He reached down his leg for his blaster, but hesitated. No. This was a different circumstance. This was his moment.

His yellow lightsaber exploded into life in the bar, and suddenly the patrons took notice. A Jedi had come to Korriban. The Sith looked rather taken aback, but curled his lip into a nasty snarl nonetheless and charged at Taylor, who barely raised his blade in time to catch the crimson beam. There was no feeling of material resistance, as there was with vibroblades. Through the connection of their plasma, Taylor could only feel the strength of the man opposite him. Through something else, Taylor could feel his seething hatred.

Taylor battered the blade away, planting his feet firmly. A stab, aimed at his face, hissed by as he twisted his torso to dodge. He jumped backward to avoid the following slash, then raised his blade vertically to block an incoming swipe. The Sith didn't pause between blows, definitely able to sense his own advantage in the contest. Taylor ducked and wove, knocking low tables over in an effort to put space between himself and the flurry of lightsaber attacks, but that didn't work so well against a warrior like this. The bar in the middle of the cantina was a U-Shape in the middle of the building, and seating wrapped around it. Taylor quickly felt himself cornered towards the back, and with no other choice, stood his ground with his lightsaber out before him defensively in both hands.

"What is this?" Taylor's opponent scoffed. "You are no Jedi, but you wield a lightsaber. If you could call it that."

"I was actually a janitor at your school," Taylor retorted. "I found this thing in the trash."

"It's a shame that you stand a decent chance to be trained – were I not about to kill you."

The bar had a series of steel cylinders mounted atop, each filled with various liquors. In haste to preserve his life, Taylor swung wildly at them, and a carbonated burst of frothy drink shot outward between he and the Sith. Taylor vaulted over the bar, then darted around the bend towards the door once more, but the Sith cut him off, raising his blade with deadly intent. Taylor rolled forward, somehow narrowly avoiding a lethal cut, and urged the door with all of his might to fly open.

And so it did.

Taylor surged forward, out into the dusty street, looking frantically to the right and the left. If the Force could open the door, then surely it could guide him to safety. He turned off his saber before it could draw looks from anyone outside, and ran as fast as he could. He didn't care where he ended up, so long as it was far enough away from the cantina. An open area appeared, somewhat of a thoroughfare. There were people cloaked against the dust milling about; he had to avoid bowling them over. A fearful turn about – the Sith was relentless, pounding after him with sanguine fervor. There was no where to hide, no way to use the environment as a tool. Taylor had to fight.

It was a fast engagement. That was preferable, Taylor reflected, because without time to think he had no time to hesitate. Two whirling lightsaber blades erupted in the streets, and suddenly passersby that would typically not even blink at so much as a minor public disturbance were pulled into an ancient war that had been playing out for thousands of years. No particular fanciness influenced this Sith's movements; he struck hard and fast, recognizing his superior swordplay and pressing that advantage. Defense was the only option, but Taylor was finding his lightsaber battered away and scraping across the ground far too often for his comfort. He danced backwards, leaping over any small changes in elevation, desperately wanting the commotion to attract Lanee. Of course, that probably meant other Sith, too. The whole mission was ruined. Taylor found that a frustrating pill to swallow, especially since he had been the one to have his cover blown so early. As the red slashes fell upon him, a mounting anger swelled up inside. At first, it was turned inward, as Taylor swore at his useless confidence and self-sure nature. If he hadn't have fancied himself as a damned Jedi hero, he would have carried out this task just as he had any other, staying in his wheelhouse. His over-zealousness was going to be the reason this crazed Sith hacked him to pieces in a storm of molten-hot plasma. It wasn't any part of the future he had envisioned for himself. He'd just been a stupid child with a pipe dream.

A blow that his brain interpreted as fatal before it even connected was swung. The aggressor raised his saber high above his head, his teeth bared and gritted, the intent to kill etched into every line of his face. But something happened. Perhaps whatever spark he had found within that had made the cantina door open remotely was still lit, and it burned as Taylor's shield. Perhaps he was always ready for this moment, even as he dreamt of being a Jedi and fighting in so many. The Force guided his arm, and the red saber locked with the yellow. Taylor was kneeling, but soon he stood, his strength finally feeling adequate enough to push back against this monstrous assault. It was a change that had overtaken him, and the Sith noticed, confusion spreading across his expression. Taylor glared at the man, his will to live a flame behind his eyes that he was certain his opponent could see.

"I guess this is what being a Jedi is all about, huh?" Taylor said through gnashed teeth.

"There is far too much fury in your presence to be a Jedi's," breathed the struggling Sith. He was beginning to lose his ground.

The plasma screeched and crackled. Taylor wasn't sure what he had expected, but his first lightsaber duel was almost unpleasantly warm, the heat from the blades cast across two competing faces. They were lines drawn across a plane, and if he intersected just that small strip of color in any of three dimensions, he would lose a limb – or worse. The strangeness of that concept struck him in battle, and suddenly he didn't feel like he was there anymore. This was something that couldn't be happening, or at least, something that couldn't be happening to _him._ But still his body moved, sliding down grooves cut long before his time. And eventually, after so much hacking away, Taylor had battered his opponent into submission, leaving him breathing ragged and limp against a pile of crates.

"I'll admit," wheezed the beaten man, "I didn't know a Jedi could fight like that."

"Neither did I," conceded Taylor. He had yet to fully realized what he had just done.

"I accept death. Go on," he told Taylor, closing his eyes. Taylor watched his chest heave up and down. The man was exhausted. He also was aware of the many eyes watching him.

All around him, in the red, dusty streets of Dreshdae, the denizens of Korriban regarded blankly the first Jedi they had seen in their lifetime.

 **LANEE FOUND HERSELF** in a small bazaar of sorts, an isolated little pocket in the shade of larger buildings. The Force had led her there, she believed. She garnered no suspicious looks from even the shadiest of vendors, be they on the ground with their items spread out on a blanket or behind a shabby kiosk. This seemed a place that, if found, meant you were supposed to be there.

Only one small whisper gave her pause. A beckoning finger invited her to the blanket of a figure in worn, holed robes, and a head wrapping that obscured his face. He seemed almost like a buried mummy, though Lanee dryly supposed that if one were to come crawling out of the sands here it wouldn't be that out of place. Lanee sat cross-legged, more curious of the strange vendor than of any of the bits and pieces he had collected before him. Briefly, she scanned his wares. There was some residual energy clinging to a few; she felt their hum in the Force. Pieces of cloth, fragments of what could have been lightsaber crystals. Perhaps this merchant was a tomb-plunderer, though in his frail state, he seemed like more of a re-seller.

"Jedi," he whispered. Instantly, her guard was raised. "Do not worry – I am no enemy of your kind. You've come here because you felt it. There is something in this market that you seek." Lanee cautiously chose not to answer, instead inclining her head slightly to indicate he should continue. "Yes. What you seek is beyond a mere trinket. It is a piece of history – of your history." The small crinkle behind his head wrapping suggested to her that maybe the man had smiled.

"Doubtful I would find such a thing here," Lanee said in a low voice, monitoring a large man who had just entered the market. She could tell by his walk that he knew battle, but not much else.

"Isn't that what life is about? Finding these small fragments before you in such unexpected places," the merchant said, rubbing his long fingers over their respective palms. "The Force speaks in a way we call mysterious, but in fact is so obvious. You merely have to open yourself to its truths."

"Very well, merchant. Show me"

He twisted his thin torso to reach behind him, and produced his bounty with pride. Holding it in his battered, wrapped hands, a Kath Hound horn Lanee knew unmistakably well rested. The thin strip of lighter discoloration over the grey bone was still there. He hand instinctively flew to her mouth.

"Where did you get this?" she whispered incredulously.

"A hunter's trophy. He sold it once, and the buyer sold it again, and in the cascade that is the Force, it found its way to me. And now to you." She was certain of his smile.

"It was no hunter's trophy," Lanee corrected quietly, fixated on the horn. They had found it on Dantooine as children, sitting there in the tall grass. She still remembered how hot it was to the touch, having sat there in the summer sun for time untold. Perhaps it was all that remained of a dead beast, or maybe still it had been ripped from his head in battle. They had speculated, Lanee and -

She touched the horn, and a great flood of images overtook her senses.

 _ **IT MOVED FAST**_ _, like a holotope on fast-forward. She watched him gather his things in the moonlight of his room's window, fast and frantic. There was a palpable excitement – he was going to face his destiny. And somewhere mixed in was anger. Anger at Lanee._

 _The clothes hurtled into his bag, along with any other possessions he felt he might need. He paused, hovering over the Kath Hound horn on his dresser. He packed it in. Now he was fleeing out into the moonlight, hoping he hadn't awakened his parents. The man was waiting for him at the ship, he had said. He tore down the dirt path towards town, hoping, praying that this was real. The chance he had always dreamed of. The bright spotlights of the administrative building – he sprinted underneath them, only the quiet chorus of singing bugs to be heard. The landing pads were just beyond, and there, standing with folded arms in the bright white glow of the ships lights behind him on the loading ramp, was the hooded man who had caused so much stir earlier that day. He stoically watched as the young boy raced up to greet him, and then wordlessly, coldly took his bag from him. He rifled through it, looking to see if the bare necessities were all that were present as he had commanded. When he found the horn, he looked quizzically at the boy – for there was to be no bringing of any object with sentimental value._

 _"It...it might sell. I have no money to my name," he attempted. Fear ripped through him, but only for a moment, as the man nodded and returned his bag, horn and all. Together, they boarded the ship, and the sheer elation rippling through her best friend's body gave Lanee an ache that she could not soon will away._

 _She remembered where she had been that night – alone, in her own room, looking at the star. Lanee had an unexplainable feeling that it had been the last day she would ever see her dearest friend, and indeed, the next morning the surrounding farmsteads had awoken to a chaotic search orchestrated by his parents to find the boy. But he was gone, up there amongst the stars, a darker course intended. Lanee knew that her best friend likely died that night, at least in spirit. That was when she resolved to become a Jedi, as he had turned from her to apprentice himself to the Sith. The ghostly name she had long yet to utter appeared on her lips as her hot tears rolled down her cheeks in the window's moonlight._

 _Ryker._

 **LOW THUNDER RUMBLED** in the jungle, and Ven stood resolute beneath the swirling tempest above. A slight rain pelted his armor with tiny, wet clicks, inducing a thin film. The planet featured a nitrogen-and-oxygen rich atmosphere, and the flora was unimpeded and overpowering. Like on so many lost worlds, the Force was a muted thing, not having touched sentient life for countless ages. Ven relished the quiet ambiance. Ryker seemed less comfortable so far from his creature comforts. Ven's most potent observation of his apprentice was that the young man needed the background noise of the universe in order to have a foundation upon which to build the roar of the Force. A curious disparity, given their respective backgrounds. He supposed it was really just an extension of their desires.

There was a treck through the trees to be made. The scanner had indicated something massive beneath the canopy, but it hadn't been visible with their naked eyes upon circling in the ship. The clearing they had found to land in was the closest amenable spot _._ Ven eagerly initiated the march, Ryker following in toe. His apprentice had served him well for many years, Ven thought. When he was but a boy, Ven had been unsure of his promise, but that quickly faded. Ryker had proven himself competent many times over, and more impressively, stylistically independent of his teacher. So many young Sith merely copied the mannerisms of their masters, but Ryker had shown a flare for his own methods. Ven found some measure of pride in himself for creating such a successful piece of his legacy. But moreover, Ven was relieved to have found someone capable powering the Apex Ascent.

It was something he had known long before acquiring the holocron; Rakatan facilities that were fueled by raw Dark Side energy all shared a common thread in their building, and that was the sacrifice of the massive slave forces that had built them. Their lives served as the catalyst to the Star Forge, most prominently. But the Apex Ascent, when Ven had found the whispers of it, was rumored to be of a different nature. The burning of souls in some cosmic crucible seemed infinite in some technologies of the Infinite Empire, but this one was different. It needed one-to-one parity for each healing it dispensed. And the only way Ven had conceived it to be possible to find someone approaching his strength yet gullible enough to traverse with him to this place was to grow him himself.

Perhaps there was some irony in the fact that it was Ven's former master Veshiram who had told him the price of the Apex Ascent.

Ven did sense something stirring inside of his student, however. It was an anxiousness he couldn't place over any particular source. It was but a flicker of emotion, but Ven was able to catch it.

If Ryker had caught on to his plan, doubtless he would have fled much earlier. In the bowels of the jungle in which they now found themselves, it was too late for deviation. Their fates were intertwined regardless.

They made their journey in silence.

 **ACROSS THE GALAXY,** Taylor felt the ripples.

The Force was now very much in the forefront of his perception. It was a like a drug that he had (somehow) never tried before; utterly intoxicating, but uplifting in a the best way possible. He felt awake to a world previously hidden from him, and in the full light of its dawn, Taylor felt whole.

But it was that new found connection that turned his head to the sky at a seemingly innocent vector. While far away, there was something profound happening out in the galaxy. The new world he had woken up in was decidedly bright, but there was a dash of pure terror if you turned just the right direction, like the shrillness of a string instrument. It left Taylor humbled, watching the sky, and he felt the presence of the Sith that had almost ended his life on Tersi station. He was reaching the end of his race, too.

Taylor bounded through the gawking crowd, ignoring the devastated Sith opponent behind him. He needed to find Lanee, and the two of them needed to leave – now. He had no real evidence to present as to why, but the feeling of impending dread was strong enough on his spine and the back of his neck to surge him forward. Of course, he was not unnoticed.

 **TAYLOR NEARLY RAN** straight into her, but stopped just short of Lanee at the last moment. They stood in an alley outside of the small merchant's corner, Lanee with the Kath Hound horn's weight in her waist pouch. She could quickly see he was under immense stress, the harried signs of battle strewn across his person. Most concerning of all was the position of his lightsaber. Not on the ship, as she had asked, but neither looped on his belt; rather, it was tightly gripped in his hand.

"What -" she began.

"We, uh, might have to leave," he interjected, nervously looking over his shoulder. He froze, his vision finding something unwanted. Lanee followed his gaze only to spot an unnervingly awkward figure. He, assuming that it was, stood with a great malformation afflicting his back, bending the poor creature over and cocked to the right, almost as though his spine was twisted by two strong, cruel hands. His arms were hanging like twin hooks, one seemingly larger than the other due to the deformity of the back. The dark robes he chose to wore rested over the tremendous resulting hump in his back. Such unfortunate medical problems typically did not affect Lanee, and usually sparked Jedi empathy, but this was somehow different in a way she could not identify. The sight of the thing down alley left her feeling a tad ill, and certainly far more uncomfortable than her training was thought to allow.

But Lanee, unlike the similarly-disgusted Taylor on her side, new immediately why she felt that way. It was a haunting stream of the Force flowing from the man, beckoning disease and malady. He was a Sith, but not like any kind she had ever encountered before. This was one who had chosen to master an aspect of the darkness that asked for much more than the simple modes of raw power typical Sith sought. Lanee steeled herself against whatever was to come, but doubt began to cloud her judgement. She glanced at Taylor cautiously. She wasn't sure she could escape this while protecting her charge.

What she found etched in his face, though, was a terror so primal and evident that she was taken aback. His jaw was locked, his brow was a series of terrified waves, and his eyes glistened with stinging tears. Nostrils flared and retracted quickly, and he clutched at the saber in his hand as though it were a life preserver and he lost in a storm at sea. He was paling, and she could hear his stomach's protests at merely being here.

"Taylor, you have to block it out," she hissed, keeping her vision fixated on the mystery figure. "You have to harden yourself to his presence. His technique is old, but not indefensible. You are strong enough."

"It's not what he's doing," Taylor grunted through gnashed teeth. "It's what he's already done." Lanee narrowed her eyes, curious. "This was the man who kidnapped me.

Lanee heard the crackling of his dry lips as he raised them in a grotesque smile.

"Hello. My name is Tulag Zan. And I hear you were looking for me."

 **TO BE CONTINUED...**


	3. The Pariah

**CHAPTER 3 – THE PARIAH**

 _ **"IN CYCLES, WE**_ _move. For eons we have built, acquired power, gone to war. Never once has this competition served to benefit us in the long game, for always, the Jedi meet us at equal capacity, and the resulting impact sends both factions back to an incubatory state." He paused for effect, looking over the faces of the congress at the table before him. "I suggest something different. A new tactic."_

 _They convened in the meeting room of the Sith Academy. It was a solemn place. The stillness in the air held the obfuscated fears of those who had gathered there on that day. The dimness of the lights shrouded a circle of hooded figures, their heads bowed and hands clasped as it was not their turn to speak. The current Sith were not a loud bunch, not as eager to test themselves against each other as those in centuries past had done – they knew their breed was dieing, and this meeting was a matter of course. Emergency beget need. Then, someone chose to respond._

 _"You suggest weakening ourselves." Veshiram did not bristle; he had expected the opposition to his plan to be strong. "What reason is there in trusting our future to such an unexplored science? You claim this ancient Sith knowledge can surprise the Jedi, but it surprises me as well. Never before in my study of our history have I heard of such magics." The detractor was a respected Chiss Sith Lord, but Veshiram had not supposed he would take his side anyway._

 _"The Sith sorcerers of old did well to keep this secret hidden," Veshiram explained, spreading his hands. "Doubtless they intended to keep and use it for themselves. I have proof of its efficacy. Would you care to see?"_

 _There was a tremor through the assembly. Lords of the Sith could rarely occupy the same place so civilly, but these days, their numbers were less and their motivation low. Eight, and he was the ninth. These were all that dared to call themselves Lords, but what would history have to say of any of them? Veshiram was the best student among them, and he knew that the future of the Sith was bleak. These men could not lead. These men could not restore the glory of the Empire. There were old councils, and not even so long ago - they teemed with eldritch power, and every ounce of their beings whispered ambition. Veshiram was looking at the table scraps of the Sith, and their inadequacy was contemptible. But they were all that was left._

 _Veshiram allowed himself a minuscule, dry smirk. The corners of his mouth curled in unison with the beckoning gesture his fingers made. Halfway down the left side of the table, a human clutched at his chest in discomfort. No one else noticed at first, but as his pain grew, others began to take notice. They watched as the Sith struggled against some invisible assailant, and listened to his strained attempts at breath. Likely it appeared as a simple application of Force Choking, but the caster knew differently. Veshiram was not going to kill this man. He was going to awaken his inner fire._

 _After a brief struggle, the blackness Veshiram had left in the man's heart assumed control of the vessel. Rage, pure and bright, bloomed from him. With gritted teeth and eyes of incandescent yellow flame, he stood. The expression on his face told the story to the onlookers – this was not the quiet one who had entered. Something had gone horribly wrong._

 _The afflicted man drew his lightsaber in a flash and leapt over the table. It was a single clean motion – the head of the Chiss rolled on the rough stone floor. The other Sith held still, their tongues stayed but their eyes wide with fear._

 _"Fear not – I am in complete control of him," Veshiram soothed. The other Sith were visibly not quite convinced. "Two nights ago, I found myself in his chambers. While he slept, I went about my work. A seed of rage, planted in his heart, blossoming only at my command. This is how I hold him." He looked with fondness upon his thrall, tilting his head like a proud parent. "And this is how we will wipe out the Jedi Knights."_

 _ **HE REMEMBERED THE**_ _brightness an unknown sun. What world he found himself on was similarly hidden, but Taylor ran nonetheless. His captor had freed him intentionally – of that he was certain. A gnawing sensation in his brain was unshakable, but his sprint seemed to abate it somewhat. Duststorm. He had to find it. Oddly enough, the dust under his feet rose up in response. He realized, with a backwards glance, that he was very far away from the bar. A cave entrance sat firmly in his view, and the mere sight of the gaping blackness triggered a squirming fear throughout his body._

 _The hermit in the cave had dragged him out here, to the wilderness and...done what?_

 _He couldn't recall._

 _He did remember, however, the ship. It had been their means of arriving in this forsaken place. The sedative had fogged his memory, but not obliterated it. Taylor was aware during the trance, and he was just coming to realize that now. He could find Duststorm if he searched himself thoroughly. The means were there._

 _Familiar rock formations became his goal. The planet was very red. The jagged blasts of sharp sandstone held no pattern for him yet, though. He kept running, scouring the wastes, understanding that it could not be far. Every fiber of his body resonated with that hope._

 _And then, miraculously, Duststorm's familiar profile bloomed over a ridge._

 _Taylor took no time in haphazardly scrambling down the treacherous hill, dirt assaulting his face in stinging bursts, his palms shredded as they dragged over crispy stone. He tore himself apart to get to his ship. And when he entered her cool metal halls, dousing himself in water from her reserve tank, the fear started to melt away. Duststorm left that planet gladly, but the murmurs it left in Taylor's dreams still lingered._

 _One in particular came to him in the narrow lanes of hyperspace._

 _"There now, hush. It can't be so bad," crooned the hermit. "It's over, just like that. No pain. No discomfort."_

 _"What did you do to me?" Taylor begged. The most frightening realization wasn't that he had allowed himself to fall asleep in that cage – something he had pledged not to do. It was that, upon awakening, he felt exactly the same. Whatever the creature had done to him in his vulnerability, it was completely traceless._

 _"Nothing you wouldn't want me to," he assured. It was then that Taylor caught the clearest glimpse of the thing that held him captive. The wide, wide grin and the grey flesh was not an image easily parted with. "All I needed you to do was fall asleep."_

 **THE STONE LATTICE** spread over the structures made Ryker think. The Rakatans, he knew, employed vast amounts of slave labor to build the framework of their empire. But every inch of the Apex Ascent, from the towering spires to the wide ziggurats, seemed to have been meticulously hand-chiseled. The structure, despite the intense weathering it must face in the humidity and rains of the jungle, seemed no worse for the wear. The level of craftsmanship was astounding – far beyond what he would have expected a slave army, no matter how motivated, to produce. It kindled dreams of one day commanding such a legion himself. Production of glorious effigies across countless worlds, monuments to eternal power.

He liked the Rakatan's style.

"Many have died here," Ven commented. He was leading the way through the open-air facility, though Ryker wasn't particularly certain his master knew exactly where they were going. "This place seethes with the Dark Side."

"I feel it too, master," Ryker said. It was indeed a nexus of energy, though it was tinged in a peculiar way. Ryker could not quite place his finger on it, but the air carried a different scent, so to speak. This was unlike the swelling vortexes of the Force that pooled within Sith tombs on Korriban. It was an alteration of some sorts, and much, much older.

All around them, looming statues of gargantuan Rakatan watched their progress, looking down with bent heads as the pair silently continued through the thoroughfares of the Apex Ascent. Ryker realized just how much Sith art had drawn, intentionally or not, on the influences of the former masters of the galaxy. He felt the statues were judging him too, just like those in the Valley of the Dark Lords. He smiled and went about his business.

The compound was built on a long, sloping hill, and from the very entrance they had faced an incline. It was not so physically daunting to their hardened bodies, but to lesser forms, perhaps it would pose a challenge. The hike was long; Ryker felt the burn in his thighs as time progressed. It was then that he reflected on how adequate a name Apex Ascent was – they were certainly climbing to _something_.

Ven stopped suddenly. The atmosphere had changed; something quivered. The two Sith stood motionless and cast aside their sight, reaching out. The warm glow of droids, the whirl of their gears and clicks of their feet on coarse stone – these were the sensations that came back to Ryker. He felt their red animosity, their programming quite clearly set to defend the installation against intruders. His master loosened the belt loop on his lightsaber.

"Servitor droids. Sixteen of them," he buzzed casually, his back turned to his apprentice. Ryker nodded.

 **THE URGE TO** flee was overwhelming, but something kept Taylor rooted to the spot.

Tulag Zan did not approach, maintaining his distance at the end of the alley. Probing tendrils of sickness brushed against Taylor's senses, testing to see if he remembered. He did. This time, however, Taylor had a new ally. The Force enveloped him like a cocoon, warding off Zan's playful taunts. The two did not need to speak to acknowledge their relationship.

"I see you've become quite the Jedi," said Tulag Zan, grinning gleefully. "I suppose we have the girl here to thank. What a potent master she must be to have brought you so far in such little time."

Taylor chose not to respond, though Lanee did.

"What do you want from us?" she asked cautiously. Taylor could feel her intensity – she was ready to strike at the slightest change in the situation.

"Oh, nothing much. I'm just here to satisfy my curiosity." Zan refused to look at anything except Taylor. "I gather you two have had a chat about me. I hope so, at least. Taylor and I shared quite the night together, didn't we?"

"He's trying to manipulate you Taylor. Let his words be water. They will flow past you," Lanee instructed.

"Then he would be but a stone in a river. He's much more than that, I'd wager. You _can_ hear me, cant't you Taylor?" Zan asked with mocking, joyous tones.

"It's...been a long time," Taylor managed. Most of his attention was directed at battering back Zan's mental assault.

"How is Shayira?" Zan asked conversationally. "Let's see. Oh, ill, is she? That's unfortunate. She seemed quite special to you during our last visit."

"Steel your mind, Taylor!" Lanee said with urgency. "Throw up the wallls I know you're capable of. Think of something – anything – else!"

"Oh, hush, child, have you never seen a _true_ Sith before?" Zan snapped with mild annoyance. "I know your hearts. They speak to the air, and I merely listen. There is nothing neophytes such as yourselves could hide from me." He regarded her now, for the first time. "Oh, Master Zemner's student! How is he doing? It's been a while since he and I have spoken."

With bleak acceptance, Lanee realized her own barriers had already been penetrated. Zan was pulling what he willed from her memories, and she hadn't even noticed.

"Let us pass, or face us in battle," Lanee warned, igniting her saber. The shadowed alley was washed in its strong blue glow.

"Unnecessary," Zan stated simply, waiving a hand. "I mean neither of you harm. Ask Taylor. I let him walk away from me without so much as a scratch.

"Then why abduct him at all?" Lanee asked.

"Taylor has a very special role to play in coming events," Zan explained. "Events that I fear are coming sooner than later."

Taylor was finding it hard to stay himself in the thing's presence. It was as though Zan was a great void, and the shimmering event horizon around him siphoned off a piece of Taylor's soul for each second he remained close. The world began to spin; Taylor struggled to focus his vision, and commanded himself internally to not lose his barriers. But he knew he was losing. Soon he wouldn't even be able to run.

"I'll stop if you'll agree to come with me," Zan offered quietly.

"...Where," Taylor grunted, one eye closed and the other rapidly fading.

"A place you know all too well, I'd imagine."

The cave. Its sights and scents returned to Taylor in a rush. It was a place that occupied his nightmares, the thought of which made his skin feel close to erupting from within. Taylor realized suddenly that the red earth he had noted upon his release was all around him. He had been to Korriban before, and steeped in its darkness. A lot of things began to make sense.

"What's wrong with here?" Lanee asked, her voice still stalwart. Zan looked around with disinterest, though seemingly scanning for something.

"There is a...new faction in Dreshdae. One only recently spawned. And while I think there are several interesting merits to discussing its leader with you in particular, Jedi, they move. And they move well." He looked back at Lanee intensely. "Do you understand what I mean?"

Lanee conferred with the Force. There were tiny pulses in the water, just as Zan had implied. They intended to converge upon the alley. She could see the outlines, blurry and vibrating, and hear fragments of cogent thoughts, none of which were good for them. Even Zan seemed to be slightly worried.

"Forgive me Taylor, for I do not think we have much time," she said to her ailing friend gently.

"Nah. I get it. We need to go now. I'm ready."

Zan's oppression ended abruptly, and all of Taylor faculties resumed their functions as though they had never left him. But there was no moment to linger. Zan strolled away into the murky sun, and the cautious pair fled after him.

 _ **A YEAR AFTER**_ _accepting Veshiram's tutelage, Ven had garnered quite the reputation._

 _No more did the stronger students of the Academy batter him in the training room. No longer did he struggle to remain unnoticed. There wasn't a thing he could do that didn't attract attention. People began to give him a wide birth in the corridors, and he was aware of their whispers. They saw his body growing stronger, acclimating to the prosthetics. He gained a tremendous amount of muscle weight in that short time. But the true increase was somewhere loftier._

 _From pariah to golden child, Ven became a name that was not spoken lightly. Once, when a powerful Twi'lek student by the name of Tyae who was not quite ready to relinquish his status to the up-and-comer Ven, a challenge to duel was issued and left outside of Ven's quarters. He glanced over the note briefly, and a surge of excitement rippled through his body. He had finally been given the opportunity he so desired._

 _The duel was in the shadows of the looming Dark Lords, out in the valley. The sun was low, threatening dark night. Roaming Tuk'ata packs began to stretch their limbs, skulking about with a gleam of intent in their eye, for they sensed a chance at a meal soon. Ven strode confidently down the path into valley, where a congregation of students awaited him in a circle. Tyae was in the center. He had obviously used stims; his frame had thickened considerably, and his shoulders heaved in undirected anger. His grip over the double-bladed lightsaber was choking, the metal imprinting firmly into the skin of his hands. Ven coolly parted the crowd and took his place opposite his opponent. Silence fell over the crowd, and they watched eagerly._

 _"You think you've improved, whelp. I can see it," Tyae growled. "But you're still just as weak as you were the day you came to this academy. I should have killed you on the spot."_

 _Ven did not respond. He merely held Tyae's gaze with quiet composure._

 _"It figures you'd have nothing to say. Your strength is not your own – you ride the coattails of your master."_

 _"You sound jealous," Ven suggested._

 _A vein bulged in Tyae's forehead. "You sound dead."_

 _He ignited his staff and lunged at Ven in a graceful spiral. Ven calmly side-stepped the assault, not yet igniting his own lightsaber. He faced down Tyae's combination with ease, ducking the follow-up slash and springing backwards on his hands away from the vertical swing that came next. Tyae, who considered himself fast, showed visible frustration at the simplicity of Ven's movements. Ven himself was confident that Tyae could not hit him, yet the dangers of a double-blade were well-known. Their attacks were always part of a greater sequence, and with careful application of momentum, an exceptional duelist could bait his opponent into attacking an apparent opening, only to face his demise on the other end of the blade. Ven needed to wait for a particularly large gap in Tyae's defenses to strike with his single blade, and the quickest way to get that was to play on Tyae's uncontrolled fury._

 _"Fight me, coward," Tyae hissed. Ven merely watched._

 _The next pattern of attacks came accompanied bya scream of rage. Tyae swung relentlessly, his red plasma twirling and dancing in the twilight. He contorted his body with great agility, flinging strike after strike towards Ven's vitals. All missed. Ven was simply faster, and as the number of wildly thrown blows tallied higher, Tyae made this enraging discover._

 _"I'm sick of this. Time to be rid of you," Tyae said, an edge of breathlessness creeping into his voice. Ven sensed his window opening. "DIE!"_

 _Tyae rocketed high into the air, his blade held high over head and his frame blocking out the dwindling sunlight. Ven could not hold back his smirk. Tyae's saber implanted itself into the dirt where his nemesis had been, singing the red soil into a black ring. Ven, moving faster than most students in the ring could follow, had nimbly navigated his way behind Tyae's landing point. The pair were now back to back. Still holding that smirk, Ven activated his lightsaber._

 _"You...you're not..." Tyae never finished his thought. Ven spun and swept his saber upwards, severing Tyae's right arm. It fell to the ground, smoke wafting from the severed area. Tyae raised his head to the sky and screamed in agony, accented by despair and anger. It was Ven's favorite sound._

 _"Don't worry, Tyae," Ven mocked gently. He slowly rolled back his sleeve to reveal his cybernetic arm. "Prosthetics have come a long way, you know."_

 _Tyae rotated his neck to see Ven, his visible eye bloodshot and furious, teeth bared in pain. Suddenly, his remaining arm abandoned the saber and pointed towards Ven. A flurry of blue lightning erupted from his fingers. Ven quickly raised his blade to absorb the energy. He dug his feet into the soil, the force of the lightning causing him to dig his heels in, forming a small trench. His resolve did not falter. Tyae's face fell as Ven inched forward, his saber drawing closer and closer to Tyae's face. The Twi'lek issued a final scream as the scorching crimson plasma slowly pressed into his face, mutilating and searing him to death. His body collapsed on the ground, and moved no more._

 _Ven remembered walking back up the path to the academy, leaving behind the stunned crowd. Veshiram, leaning against the rocks with folded arms, was waiting for his apprentice._

 _"Impressive, pupil. Besting Tyae was no small feat. But I wonder, how will you handle the newfound fame being the strongest student at the Academy?"_

 _"Tyae was not the strongest. I sense that those with the most power tend to be the quietest of them all," Ven responded. "It is there that I shall look."_

 _"But don't they need to be? In times such as these, with our numbers so few, is it truly best to turn on each other and neglect our true adversaries?" This gave Ven pause._

 _"No master, of course. I will stay my blade. The Jedi must fall," Ven answered. Veshiram grinned wide in response._

 _"Oh I sense you will be_ quite _the facilitator of that."_

 **ACROSS THE BARREN** wastes, a few kilometers outside of whatever semblance of civilization Dreshdae provided, there was a cave. Korriban was home to many, but this one in particular, and for whatever reason, was the hovel of a large, grey mass of a man who lived like a hermit and practiced like a sorcerer of the old Sith. Taylor's memories synchronized with the immediate image of that black cave entrance, and a inkling of dread began to build within him. He thought of the vastness of the galaxy he traveled – how was it he could possibly end up back here, in this tiny space?

"Oh come now," Tulag Zan murmured lowly by Taylor's shoulder. "Did you really think the first time was the last?"

They had stopped progress on a couple of occasions in order for Zan to make himself satisfied that they were not being followed. Whatever faction this was, they were certainly no friends of his. Perhaps the Sith remained fragmented in the aftermath of the war. But what kind of fragment was an old creature like this, secluded in the rocks of the desert?

Again, any desire to run was squelched by the looming threat of Zan's mental domination. They were his prisoners, but somehow that lack of choice moved to comfort Taylor. He didn't have to worry about second-guessing himself. Instead, he left his future up to fate for once. Glancing at Lanee, it was impossible to tell how she felt about the matter, but he supposed she was trying to find a way to hide her thoughts from Zan. Whatever good that would do them.

The cave's musty smell was perforated by piercing notes of some incense Zan was burning. The cave itself wasn't very deep, and their trek to the back took little time. Taylor was relieved to see that the cage was no more. The bench with the candle, however, remained. They stood in its tiny light, warding off the shadows.

"Now, I imagine that right about now -" Zan said with an effort as he lowered his weary body on to a wooden stool. "Ven and Ryker have arrived at their destination. I know that, because it was I that originally put them on that course." He paused to let that sink in.

"You've gotta be pretty proud of those two," Taylor remarked.

"Oh, I am. But they are not my crowning achievement," he said, smiling loudly. "That comes later. But for now, it is important you understand an old epithet. Older than Jedi or Sith. 'The enemy of my enemy is my friend'. Hmm? Simple. Doubtless you've heard it before."

"Ven is your enemy, then?" Lanee asked.

"Precisely. He and his student are...responsible for my condition," Zan said, gesturing to himself. "I was once a powerful Sith, with influence. For whatever that influence counted for among our remnants. Ven and Ryker sought to usurp my position. They had help, of course. Most Sith in the Academy did not agree with my...methods to restore our glory. And so they cast me out. Made me a pariah." He paused, a measured reflection apparent in his eye. "Oh, the irony in _that_..."

"Ven has been searching for a holocron for sometime now. I've been following him, but he got to it before I could. I don't know what knowledge he now possesses," Lanee said.

"I do," Zan replied. "Ven is not whole. Of course, who among us really is? But he seeks to _become_ whole, and his path to that state is very direct. There is a facility, ancient and powerful, not at all unlike the Star Forge the Republic destroyed years ago. This place, however, is different. It does not make an armada for a man – it makes a man have no need for an armada."

"And the holocron told him where it is," Taylor surmised.

"Yes," Zan crooned, nodding. "I once told him, when he was younger of course, about such a place. His tenacity is quite remarkable. It had to be to overcome his malformations. But he never gave up, and now I fear the means to become something none of us will be able to stop are within his grasp." He looked up at the pair of Jedi in his cave. "I ask of you now that you do what I could not, and stop Ven before it is too late. For if he achieves the power of the Apex Ascent, there isn't a Sith or Jedi among us that could halt the destruction he will bring."

"But how?" Lanee asked. "He has the holocron that knows the coordinates."

"When Ven attacked me, he had another motive. It was anger – anger at me for not revealing the location of the Ascent. I was unsure of him at the time, and no longer believed him to be my colleague. I can tell you the way."

Taylor shook his head. "I don't understand. Why are Lanee and I your errand-runners?" Then a spark of anger flew into his brain for not yet knowing what it was that Zan had done to him in this very cave. "Tell -"

Zan raised a hand. "The Sith are no longer my ally. Those that we fled from in Dreshdae are sympathizers. They want Ven to take the throne that Revan once occupied and lead them against the Republic and the Jedi once more.

"I want to know what you did to me," Taylor demanded. His voice carried the promise of violence.

"I unlocked what you wanted the most," Zan answered simply. "There are simply not enough Force users left, and so many of you don't have the privelge of training since childhood. Infrastructure across the galaxy is not what it used to be."

"Then why am I not a Sith? Why did you just...release me?"

"Would you believe me if I told you it is merely the way the universe works?" He grinned with that sickly impulse once more. "It just so happened to be you who I found that night. And it just so happens to be you who returned to my doorstep of his own accord."

"You're claiming to have the power to enhance Force sensitivity?" Lanee clarified. She sounded as though this was the hardest thing she was being asked to believe of all.

Zan blinked, his eyelidss performing the motion one at a time with a sticky click. "Of course."

"But the Force guides us. It could not be pure coincidence that Taylor was where he was, and is where he is now. The chances of that are - "

"My dear child, there are so many truths you have left to learn. _Of course_ I picked Taylor, _because I knew he'd come back_!," Zan exclaimed. Then he grinned with that sickly impulse once more. "Don't you know we move in cycles?"

 **AT THE CENTER** of the facility lied the Reconstitution Chamber.

An uncountable number of doors and hallways occupied the space between the Ascent's entrance and its coveted inner core, but at last they all were behind him. Even Ven himself had given pause to consider the immensity of the physical task that reaching the chamber had been. He wasn't sure if it was Rakatan ritualism or a means of defense, but the Apex Ascent was not a place easily penetrated.

Laser turrets, clacking spider-like droids, and more than one room concealing toxic gas vents had been conquered. Now there was a finality in the air as he stood triumphant over the ghosts of the ancient civilization. He was sure they were watching him, a slave, succeed where he had never been intended to. And that felt good. The longing burning flooded his muscles once more, in the space where they would have been were it not occupied by whirling metal. Ven raised the final stone door with a wave of his hand, then strode into a room inundated with crackling white and violet energy.

Four enormous pylons, one in each corner, gave birth to a flood of lightning that hissed and sputtered as it whipped about far above their heads. Tendrils streamed off, caressing the stone walls and domed ceiling. Almost imperceptible were the silken threads that fell from the pylons, each vibrating minutely with the energy being generated up higher. They draped across a central, raised platform that supported a mesh metal square, intuitively large enough for a man to fit inside of. Around the outer edge of the room, racing surges of raw Dark Side energy skittered, tiny lightning storms of their own erupting as though they were microcosmic stormfronts. Ven's skin tingled intensely – the sheer amount of power contained within this room was staggering. It made his head swim and the edges of his vision blur, but the intoxication was not inhibiting. To the contrary, he found it invigorating.

And at last, he had found what he had been searching for all these years.

"It certainly is beautiful, master," Ryker commented, swiveling his head to take in the spectacle. Ven did not respond.

Approaching the platform, he took inventory. The brace was where he would be positioned when the device was activated; that much was obvious. But where was the power source to be placed...

The boy could not be harmed. Veshiram had been quite clear on that. Ven was the wounded one in the eyes of the Apex Ascent, and he needed his vital essences restored by the agency of one who is already whole. Ryker could be incapacitated if need be, but even risking that made Ven uneasy.

"So...how do we activate it?" Ryker asked aloud.

"There is a console. I will manipulate it," Ven stated. He needed to see if there was some delivery method to transfer the sacrifice gently into the reciprocal. Surely the Rakatans had not made such a glaring design oversight. Ven approached the console, staying aware of Ryker's wanderings about the room. He did not want his apprentice watching what he was about to search for.

By pure, terrifying accident, Ven opened the small circular shaft where Ryker was to fit. He had to remind himself that the boy had no way of knowing what it was for, but he was alerted by the sucking sound of it opening, and meandered over to it to investigate.

"Master? Did you do this?" he asked.

"I believe it is a vent. The machine produces much heat."

"Ah, of course," Ryker said. Realistically, there was little time until he discovered that no air flowed from the portal. But that was quickly ceasing to matter. Sanguine pleasure crept into Ven's smile as he closed in on the commands he was looking for.

Soon.

 **RYKER HAD NO** intention of being made a sacrifice.

His master erroneously made the assumption that he was ignorant enough to fall for his trap. His independent studies of Rakatan techonology had helped, true, but Ryker considered his cleverness elite. He would have figured it out eventually, and the outcome would be much the same.

It was why he had gone through all of the trouble of building such a large following on Korriban, after all.

And now things were coming together. This critical moment approaching was, indeed, the apex. He loved how dramatically the pieces fit – after this fateful day, Ryker would be able to return to the comfort of the Academy, and then his true dominance would begin to unfold. There would simply be no one left to stop him. All that could possibly do so, with the rapdily diminshing exception of Ven, were too weak or too disgraced to make a move. It was a such a pretty way of doing things; much preferable to the typical Sith bloodbath. Besides, if he had initiated _that_ , who would be left to serve him?

No, this was the cleanest way of doing things. Many on Korriban desired strong leadership under which to unify, something that there had been a sore lack of in the vacuum left by Revan and Malak. Apprenticeship to someone of Ven's stature had many advantages. There were some who even expected Ven to claim the coveted title of Darth for himself. But then he inexplicably disappeared, seemingly disinterested with the politics and power grabs. Thus Ryker casually swayed onto the abdicated throne. Oh, how quickly things had changed.

Years ago, Ven had found Ryker on a trip to Dantooine, in search of Silarith's holocron. From what Ryker understood, Ven had only recently seperated from his master himself. There had a been a growing rift between Veshiram and his peers; something soured their resolve to work together after the hatching of a plan that did not quite suit the tastes of the wounded Sith Lords who were so hungry for a swift return to power. Ryker never quite knew the details, as the plan's unpopularity made it short lived – and so was Veshiram, after his fall from the good graces of the Sith elite. Ven had, as was tradition, struck the feeble philosopher down himself.

Or rather, that was the truth both parties wanted the world to know.

 _ **THE TRUTH WAS,**_ _Ven disclosed, that Veshiram was still very much alive, having eluded the killing blow and escaping into the shadows, as he was so apt to do. Ven thought it likely he was still operating on Korriban, though it would have to be deep under cover, for he wouldn't dare risk showing his face again. That said, Ven did inflict significant injuries upon Veshiram – enough to mar his appearance to a severe degree. Ven was of the opinion his master might use that to his advantage in hiding. Ryker knew better than to test his master's temperament with questions of why he no longer pursued Veshiram – the man simply could not allow his failures to be known. But it did make him curious as to why Ven would tell Ryker the truth, then._

 _"You will meet many people in your travels with me, young one. But you must know this truth, for it is the only truth that will keep you free – my master was a deceiver to his core. Perhaps the greatest that ever lived."_

 _"In what way?" Ryker asked, enthralled by the description._

 _"Every word he sires is calculated. He speaks math. Half of what he says is the absolute truth, but the other is outright lie. He will toy with you until you no longer know which is which."_

 _"His ability sounds admirable," Ryker acknowledged. He, too, wanted to be as such._

 _"It is death," Ven offered simply, his eyes caught on an object much farther away than Ryker could hope to see._

 **"THERE IS SOMETHING** I feel compelled to tell you, Taylor," Lanee said softly. They were once more in Duststorm's main compartment, away from the instruments of the cockpit. The air hung heavy with finality. Minutes before, Lanee had finished broadcasting everything she knew about her current case to the Jedi Temple. Taylor had felt a twinge of uncertainty as he listened to her broadcast – there was a sense of expectation in her voice, and he hoped that it didn't mean the worst. He wanted her to come out of this unscathed just as much as he did for himself.

"I'm ready for it," Taylor said, exhaling. She regarded him with her ever-studious eyes.

"I feel as though I must share this in the interest of fairness. I am not your master, but this bond we have come to share is equally important as if I was. And I must tell you this because I...am not perfect as a Jedi, though I strive to be."

"You're in love with me. Knew it," Taylor said dryly. "Why does it always turn out like this?"

A scowl traced its way across her lips. "I wish I had your sense of humor. But, unfortunately, that is not the case." She paused, considering her next words. "There is an ulterior motive to my pursuit of Ven and his apprentice. It is not merely a matter of galactic security for me. It's something more personal."

Now Taylor listened with rapt attention.

"When I was a child, I grew up on Dantooine as part of the resettlement program the Republic issued after the war. I had a happy childhood, and I never dreamed of leaving. I never even paid much thought to the Jedi." She smiled thinly, her eyes downward in recollection of something bittersweet. "But I had a friend who did. He was starved for adventure, and I didn't blame him. I still don't. When you're surrounded by a sea of grass, every spacer's story of a planet with so much as a building above two stories is enrapturing." She looked up at Taylor, meeting his waiting expression. "That boy was named Ryker, and he was my best friend. And when Ven came to Dantooine, he took him as an apprentice. I have searched for him ever since."

Taylor adopted a pose as if he was considering her words, but after a moment, he merely smiled and shrugged.

"It's fine with me," he said. "I'm not one to judge. How Jedi of me is that?" She almost laughed.

"I keep reminding myself of the Jedi code. I keep trying to leave emotion out of the equation. But each time I see the death that man is responsible for, I feel... _something_. I suppose I'm just hoping that Ryker is..."

"Able to be saved?" Taylor finished.

"Yes, but...I'm afraid, Taylor. Afraid that he's become the monster I don't want to find."

When the proximity monitor issued it's shrill series of bleeps to inform them of their arrival, it was an almost merciful interruption.

"Well, I guess we're about to find out," Taylor said grimly.

 _ **"IT SHOWS WEAKNESS,"**_ _argued Lord Dominus. "And at a time where we cannot bare to do so. Our numbers are too few and our influence too thin to do something that might trigger a move from the Jedi. Surely you can see this for yourself, in all of your studied wisdom."_

 _Veshiram hadn't even bothered to look up from the busy digging he was doing under his nails. His race, whatever it was, had very square, rigid nails that seemed uncomfortable to maintain with all of the blowing dirt on Korriban. He was bored with the opposition, and dissapointed that there was so much of it. These Sith were quickly earning his ire like a squabbling pack of dogs who wouldn't silence at night. They were rude, brash, and disgustingly steeped in their own ego._

 _"You know, the Jedi struggle just as much as we to replenish our numbers," Veshiram mused. And it was true – the Temple was but a monument to silence. Whatever survivors of the war had hid like cowards were only now beginning to crawl out of their holes and attempt a rebuild._

 _"Which is why we must put our foot down on their throat – allow them no breathing room. We can control the flow of recruits, but only if aren't complacent," Dominus argued._

 _"My plan isn't complacent. It's quite proactive, actually, but only if we steel ourselves against our reactionary impulses." Veshiram glanced at Dominus like a reproachful father. "You would have us campaign across the galaxy and hope that our reputation nets us the recruits we need, but if our bluff is called,_ then _our enemies will see how truly weak we are. Only my Rage Seed is potent enough to carry us through these lean times."_

 _The Sith had often found need to cloak themselves from galactic scrutiny in the past, and Veshiram saw the post-war era as no different. Only this time, Veshiram considered the cycle to be different. He was the prime mover, after all. This time, he could manipulate._

 _"You would allow the Jedi to recruit thousands of potentials on the wager that they will not sense your 'Rage Seed,' whatever is truly is. I cannot condone your deceitful methods, simply because I have no faith in them," his opponent flatly stated, reclining back in his seat. Veshiram sighed._

 _"I didn't suppose you would," he said with a hint of malice. Veshiram clicked his fingers, expecting his next puppet in the room to spring forth into action. But nothing happened. Scowling, Veshiram accesses his situation. It didn't look good._

 _"Trying to summon another pawn, Veshiram?" Dominus drawled, smirking. "Too pitiful to fight your own battles? It is no wonder why your plan is as such."_

 _"I have more than enough power to dispatch such a pathetic assembly as this," Veshiram hissed. Like a conered animal, he withdrew, but none amongst the round table rose to challenge him._

 _"But do you have enough power to face the strongest of us all?" Dominus asked._

 _"And who is that?" asked Veshiram cautiously._

 _"You should know. You trained him."_

 _The doors parted, and heavy footsteps entered the room. Veshiram felt the presence over his shoulder, and slowly craned his neck to look at his apprentice, Ven, hulking in the doorway._

 _"And you have no faith in our classic methods," Dominus said, a note of proud laughter building in his voice._

 _It became a full-blown cackle as Ven ignited his lightsaber and the doors drew shut._

 **IT WASN'T THE** first time Taylor had felt like he had found a piece of the universe he wasn't supposed to.

He remembered a conversation he'd had with Shayira once, in which he outlined his uncanny knack for finding the most dangerous, out-of-the-way spots the galaxy had to offer. She'd believed in his bad luck, too, telling him it was something of an old wives' tale about smugglers. Their luck was cursed – the gods of a culture on a long-forgotten ocean planet did it. So plagued were the good people of that world by sea-faring pirates, they turned to the heavens with their offerings in exchange for divine intervention. Taylor had told her he wasn't a pirate. She'd merely shrugged and said, "Close enough."

And so it was that the familiar displacement gnawing away at him on the unidentifiable jungle world had to be once more banished. There was work to do; they were on the heels of the Sith, who had, Lanee assured him, passed through only hours ahead of them.

"There is great darkness beyond this point," Lanee warned. They were standing before the outer gate. Taylor found the stone artwork rather jarring. Whatever civilization had built this was quite enamored with itself. And murder.

"I think my darkness sensors are a bit less tuned than yours," Taylor joked, half-seriously. "This place doesn't look as bad as some clients have sent me to."

"Do you have the detonators?" she asked. Taylor raised a small leather pouch for her to see in response. She nodded a tiny nod.

"Mind your heart, Taylor. If it will be vulnerable anywhere, it is here."

"Sure thing," he quietly promised.

Their hike began.

 **THE MOMENT HAD** arrived, yet both parties had difficulty initiating. Ryker had always expected it to be much easier were Ven to be the one to reveal his hand first; he could feed off that aggression to enact his coup. However, Ven seemed passive, and indeed he was. The truth was, Ven was not entirely sure how to proceed.

"Well, master? Isn't the device primed?" Ryker asked after a few moments of inactivity from Ven.

"There is an obstruction in that heat vent," Ven said evenly. It cannot exhaust, so the machine will not begin. It must be cleared."

"Ah," Ryker said, striding over to the reciprocal. He knelt and peered inside. He supposed that, had he not known better, he might have taken Ven's word for it. Who was he to say what an ancient machine's vents looked like? But Ryker knew of the oiled interior, like a carnivorous plant waiting for its prey to saunter in; the lacerating whips that would bind his body, piercing his flesh and draining him of his vital essences. Ryker pursed his lips and stood, turning to face his master. "I would assume that you would like me to clear it for you?"

Ven stood motionless, which often indicated a, "yes" in Rykers experience. The pupil studied the teacher's mask for a moment, watching the arcing glint of a line of light from the strands above their heads reflect in the metal. Ven had made every effort to evoke the presence of so many by-gone Sith Lords, and the mask was part of it. It had been ripped from a Trandoshan hunter's ship's hyperdrive and reforged with the Force. Ryker thought the adornment was more of a tool to hide, as opposed to a mask's traditional usage as an instrument to instill fear. So many who basked in the power of the Dark Side, Ryker had learned in his short career, harbored great insecurities.

"No, master," Ryker said softly, his eyes caressing that mask, wondering how it would fit on his own face. "I don't think I'll be doing that."

 **TAYLOR KNEW BEFORE** the door had even opened. He felt Ven's presence within the room – an angry shadow, a deep blackness in the Force. The other aura was cooler, though somewhat nervous. Both were swept away in some sort of tension that prevented them from noticing the pair of Jedi outside, but when the grinding of stone alerted them, their heads spun to see the newcomers. It was impossible to read Ven, nor see his face behind the mask, but Taylor was certain something in his heavy frame betrayed his astonishment to see him again. Ryker looked similarly aghast, but it wasn't because of Taylor.

Taylor looked at Lanee, who looked at Ryker, who looked at her. Something in the air sparked, and Taylor swore he felt a breeze across his face carrying the grassy scent of rich earth. It was gone as suddenly as it came. Lanee had hardened by his side, her body preparing for combat. Taylor affixed his gaze back on the pair of bewildered Sith, telling himself to be patient. His own job was not to engage them, but rather to allow Lanee to distract them long enough for Taylor to dump the brace of thermal detonators in the pouch on his waist somewhere that would produce catastrophic results. In short, they were going to destroy the Apex Ascent, and then attempt to flee.

In short.

Before words, if there were going to be any, Taylor watched Ven's frighteningly fast thought process. Hatching a new plan before their eyes, the juggernaut whirled on Ryker and blasted him against the distant wall with a tremendous Force blast. The crack his body made upon contact in the dark corner of the room confirmed his incapacitation. Lanee showed no emotion, though she did loosen her lightsaber from her belt and begin to take slow steps towards Ven. Taylor hadn't a clue what had just transpired, but he did sharply realize that this could only make their plan more viable. Lanee would have been hard pressed to defend against two Sith, but now Taylor began to skirt the edges, peering into the mystical mess of machinery for structural weaknesses. None were immediately obvious. Nervously, he cast a glance at Lanee, who had yet to engage her opponent, but he soon returned to his search.

"We meet again," Ven greeted. Lanee said nothing, drawing her lightsaber. Ven returned the gesture. For a long moment, they stood still, paying their respects to each other as combatants. Then the duel began.

The whining song of plasma told Taylor what was happening, and he hastened his step. Around the circular room he worked, once or twice stooping to feel for a crack or some other dip in the floor that might fit a detonator. On all counts, he came up short. The solid construction of the room made nothing obvious. A minute of intense flashing of lightsabers had passed, and now Taylor found himself sweating on the opposite end of the room. When his foot made contact with something organic, he jumped.

Ryker, bruised and battered yet very much alive, looked up at Taylor with clenched teeth and fury in his eye.

The betrayed apprentice swiped for the bag of detonators, but Taylor managed to backpedal away. He was still completely caught off guard. Ryker rose, stumbling, and lunged for the bag. It was then that Taylor knew Ryker had no idea what the contents were, for if he did, he wouldn't be so eager to blow himself up. But Ryker still very much had enough faculties to summon the Force, and a swift riptide of invisible suggestion tore the bag from Taylor hands. A cry escaped his lips.

"No!"

Taylor dug deep, and summoned the Force on his own to return the bag. The treacherous satchel hovered in a gravity well suspended in air in the space between the two; Ryker's surprise at Taylor's ability was evident. Taylor strained and grunted, willing the bag back to his hand and praying that a lethal spill would not happen.

"Those...are...thermal detonators..." Taylor managed. Ryker shook his head, shock writing across his expression.

"What?!" he yelped, releasing his command.

There was the slightest sliver of relief for Taylor, before he realized he was pulling far harder than necessary. The satchel flew over his head, sailing carelessly towards the wall. Taylor watched in slow motion as the grey orbs tumbled from the open mouth of the bag, careening through the air towards impact. The slow motion, however, was quite real – Taylor realized he was moving fast, faster than he had ever moved before. The Force guided him, lending him speed, and Taylor leapt forward to catch the grenades.

It seemed, though, that he was not the only one with such plans.

In an effort to protect his precious Apex Ascent, Ven too had burst forth, somehow having the awareness to catch what was going on in the room even during his duel. Taylor turned his head just in time to see the metal meteor of a man rocket into his shoulder, their trajectories overlapping.

There was a sobering slam against the wall briefly before the explosion, and then a long tumble into the void beyond.

 **LANEE RETRACTED HER** blade and darted to the new hole in the wall, but the thick, lightless ink obscured all vision. A great cavern, apparently, existed below the room, and Taylor and Ven were now alone within it. Reaching out, she searched for and found both of their lives, subdued but pulsing still. She momentarily contemplated jumping in after them, but gave pause when she remembered Ryker. Slowly, she turned, feeling her old friend's eyes burning into her back. He stood underneath the racing electrical impulses, watching her carefully, and recovering his strength from the blow Ven had dealt him.

"You've hit me harder," he said with a smile, mockingly soothing her imaginary worries. Lanee's jaw tightened into a rock-hard ball. "Oh, fine, I just thought you might be concerned about me. How long has it been? Nine years now, I believe. Almost a decade since we've last spoken. Did you miss me at all?"

"You're under arrest by the authority of the Jedi Council," Lanee snarled. She pointed her silent saber hilt at him with an arm outstretched. "You will -"

Two screeching ignitions resonated through the chamber. Ryker stood with a burning red blade in each hand, the tips just inches from the floor. Soft pools of pink light gathered on the floor beneath their glow. He let the thrum speak for a moment. He watched Lanee calculate, adjusting for his Jar'Kai. "I always had a flare for the dramatic, according to you."

Her first step was fast – faster than he could handle. She seemed to close the gap near instantly, a distance most swordsman would consider safe. Ryker judged it was an overhand strike coming first, but she feinted, dropping her shoulder into his chest just under his throat. White pain exploded and he gasped, and when she ducked and twirled to sweep his legs away, Ryker barely managed to find the will to jump over the attack. But her sequence had not finished. A penetrating thrust towards his face came next, in the space between his blades. Ryker crossed his sabers and swept downward in an X-pattern, deflecting the blow, but Lanee twisted her whole body, abandoning the saber and vaulting over his head, her hands pressing into the top of his skull. The lightsaber hilt shot through his legs, summoned to her by the Force, and she reignited it, swiping horizontally to cleave him in two at the waist. Ryker reached his blades over his shoulders, catching the blow, then crouched to the floor, holding his blades in the air at Lanee's eye level with the Force. The twirled in his psychic vortex, forcing her to retreat. Ryker stood and collected his blades, then cast a sidelong look at her over his shoulder.

"I am no longer your inferior," he muttered mirthlessly.

 **TAYLOR EXPLORED THE** possibility that he was still alive. Although every ounce of his body was in pain, and he could see absolutely nothing, Taylor knew he was still a viable human being. Gingerly, he rose to his feet, first searching for and gladly finding his lightsaber was still on his hip. His assessment of his current location was that it was beneath the previous room, though how deep he had fallen was a mystery. With a pang of fear, it occurred to him that Ven, too, had fallen, and was most likely down there somewhere.

So when the lights turned on with the thump of ancient circuit breakers activating, he instantly was on his guard. Adrenaline stormed through his body as he quickly took inventory. The lights were still very dim, but he could see many pillars, suggesting that this was a support system for the massive chamber above. A thin blankt of water stretched out over the floor, and skittering points of light and random whining fans came into his perception.

"This is the power source of the Apex Ascent," came Ven's voice, disembodied and drifting through the gloomy catacombs. It reverberated heavily. "We are fortunate to bear witness."

Taylor said nothing, intending to not give away his position. He looked up and around, noting the complex mesh of cords and insulation. Tentatively, he stepped forth, but the tiny splash of moving in the water elicited terror as he realized Ven could triangulate the source of the noise. Taylor attempted to regulate his breathing, but anxiety was blitzing him, waves of paranoia that were impossible to ignore. Ven chuckled lightly through his vocoder.

"I first saw that glint in your eye on Tersi station. Do you remember that moment? Yes, I sense you do," Ven hummed. A long shadow swept across a far wall, and Taylor swiveled his head to catch another glimpse, but found nothing. "I realized what constituted your strength. It is impressive." He paused. "But then, when you came here, I knew. The source of your power cannot be your own – it must be derived from the very man that taught you how to find me."

He was speaking, of course, of Tulag Zan. The man the Rodian on Tersi had instructed the holocron be delivered to. It made sense these two would know each other.

"Tell me, has he explained it to you? The Rage Seed, I mean. What it is. What it does."

Taylor closed his eyes, Lanee's words echoing in his head. He listened to Ven's voice, now, feeling the currents. Closer. Closer.

"I often make the mistake of underestimating my opponents," Ven remarked. "That I will not do with you. But without it's _handler_ , what good is an untamed _beast_?"

He was behind Taylor.

Taylor rolled forward through the water, and a crunching quake took out of a chunk of a stone pillar as Ven's fist slammed into it, where Taylor's head had just been. Taylor spun to face his adversary, and ignited his yellow blade. Ven straightened, flexing his cybernetic hand. Taylor could hear the gears whining. It was just as it had been in the apartment – the hood, the cloak, the mask, the armor – just standing there, mere meters away from him. But this time, his darkness did not overburden Taylor. It would not a Jedi.

"You think," Ven said, extending an gloved, crinkling finger towards Taylor. "That your ability is your own. That you somehow cultivated it in such short time. But it is one of his lies. He has deceived you into thinking you could beat me. And now I will show you _true_ might."

"You're talking a lot more than I remember," Taylor said, smirking. He'd found his peace.

Ven called forth his blade.

 **THEY EXCHANGED BLOW** after blow, swinging relentlessly. Neither had gained an advantage after a few minutes, but it did not deter them from trying. There was a particularly tense engagement when Lanee pinned one of Ryker's blades against a pylon, bearing down on him with all her strength, while her free hand held his other blade at bay by his wrist.

"How did you find us here so quickly, anyway? Were you that desperate to see me?" Ryker mocked through clenched teeth. He managed something of a mocking smile.

"I've seen what you've done on Korriban. What you've become. You think you're some Dark Lord of the Sith," Lanee retorted. "But they don't know you like I do."

"You'll think otherwise after today," Ryker grunted, breaking the pin and twirling back to a checking distance. "But seriously. How is it you've come here?"

"Like I said, I've been to Korriban. I met someone who isn't a fan of yours."

Ryker's eyes narrowed, and his guard relaxed somewhat.

"And who, exactly, did you meet?"

"A Sith you and your master failed to kill," she said, aiming at his pride. Instead, a dark cloud passed over Ryker's face, something that Lanee could not know dawning in his expression.

"And this Sith," Ryker said with slow intent, now standing with an inert pose. "Told you...where to find us?" Lanee furrowed her brow, nodding carefully.

And then a look of pure terror ate away Ryker.

"No...no, no...that cannot be..." he mumbled.

"What are you talking about?" Lanee barked. He had all of a sudden become disturbingly disinterested in their duel.

"If he knew...surely it wasn't him..."

"Ryker," Lanee said impatiently. "What's wrong?" He looked up from the floor at her with deeply discouraged eyes.

"It would appear you've met Veshiram."

"That was not his name," Lanee responded.

"Of course not. You only heard his alias. He is, first and foremost, the Great Deceiver. If he told you to come here, it was not without some means for him to exploit. That he knew where the Apex Ascent was all along..." Ryker shook his head, and spoke lowly. "Listen to me, and listen well: Do NOT believe a word he says. It puts you at too much risk. I fear less for you than I do the one you travel with."

"Taylor says he had a past with Zan – Veshiram. That he had once abducted him, but let him go."

"Then it is already too late for him. Veshiram has manipulated this the whole time," Ryker said before swearing loudly. "Damn! We were so careful – how does he do this?"

"What do you mean it's too late for Taylor?" Lanee asked, shocked.

"Veshiram disgraced himself before the Sith with his plans to imbue Force Sensitives with some ancient Sith arcanism he discovered, then let _your_ lot take them in for training, none the wiser. At the snap of his fingers he can assume control over anyone he has operated on – utter, and complete. Your friend is in graver danger than he knows. My master is not the biggest threat to him."

"Right you are, boy!" chimed a jovial voice from the chamber's entrance. Zan, the one Ryker called Veshiram, was there, in his hunched glory, but looking sprier than Lanee recalled. His grey, moony face beamed at them like a proud father. "Now tell me – _where is my pupil_?"

His face clicked into his signature slimy grin.

 **TAYLOR DUCKED AND** wove his way through the maze of pillars, chased by Ven's devastating blows. He had quickly realized just how outmatched he was in the face of a full-fledged Sith. He felt that there was some way of dexterously bringing resolution to the conflict, but that was dependent on V en showing him the same methodical, brutal style of combat. Perhaps if Taylor could just round the corner, just hit the right timing...

But then, the pursuit stopped.

"I tire of this," Ven said simply. "I want to test myself against your true strength. Show me the Rage Seed."

"Yeah, right, I still have no idea what that is," Taylor responded.

"Then I will have to drag it out of you. It is a shame he isn't here to aid you."

"He? You do realize my teacher is a girl, right?" Taylor asked, confused. He was happy for the breather, though.

"Fool," Ven scathed. "You haven't a teacher – you have a benefactor. You just don't know it yet." Ven snapped his fingers.

Something like a twitch spasmed in Taylor's brain. He felt different, afterwards, as though a new light had come on. It was the same closeness to the Force he had experienced in his duel on Korriban, but weaker somehow.

"I don't think you want to do whatever you just did," Taylor said, a new rasp appearing in his voice.

"Believe me. I do."

Their next clash was ferocious. Taylor ripped into Ven's defenses, forcing him to shift and sway, parry and dodge. Taylor felt good. His limbs were fluid and his mind clear. He felt capable of doing the things he needed to do in order to win. Taylor dashed forth, chaining strike after strike, taking complete initiative.

"It is strong," Ven said during a lull. "But not quite finished. I imagine he is the only one it responds to."

"I told you, I _really_ don't -" the spasm recurred, but this time with new intensity. Ven watched, a curiousness in his stance. He hadn't clicked his fingers. He hadn't done anything at all. But when Taylor re-centered his gaze on the Sith, it was with a new heightened focus, and a new throbbing in his ears.

"He is here," Ven asserted calmly, looking at the ceiling.

"But I'm still _here_."

Taylor battered down Ven's blade work with ease, slicing his opponent into a corner. Ven fell against the wall, unable to maintain his posture against Taylor's pernicious attacks. The flurry of yellow cuts snapping through the air left Ven's proud armor in tatters, and the man within hopeless.

How had he come so far, only to meet an end like this? It was rage that occupied the last moments of Ven's life - unbridled anger, that all of the work he had done, all that he had been given and managed to overcome, was being rendered pointless at the hands of a puppet who had been gifted his strength. A lack of fairness was never something Ven had lamented, and not even at the end of his life would be begin to do so. He only hoped that his spirit would somehow manage to persist, like it had always done, even when he body was so frail, as it was becoming once more...

 **"TAYLOR!" Lanee cried**. He turned around slowly, perfect silence having fallen over the room. But he was no longer standing in that Rakatan tomb, just as Lanee was no longer in her Jedi garb. She was somewhat younger and in a sundress, standing on a grassy hill, the breeze tousling the brown and green strands. She smiled at him, reaching out a hand, like an invitation to something better. He was confused, but altogether much calmer than he had been only seconds before. Taylor stretched out his own hand to grasp hers...

"That's right," she crooned, drawing him closer, cradling his head. "Come back to me. Come back. I won't lose another..."

Ven was broken and crushed behind Taylor, but Lanee had found him, and projected through the Force to appeal to his center. She let the Force course through her body and into his, easing away the hateful tension that was stemming from some black implant within his spirit. She cared not for the fact that Veshiram was soon to descend upon them, that they were surrounded by enemies on all sides, in the bowels of a hellish nightmare. All she cared about, all she manifested, was the peaceful energy of her soul's true form – and saving a friend, like she had been unable to do before.

"Oh, you are _strong_ , child," Veshiram drawled. "But he. Is. MINE."

Veshiram clicked his fingers in the darkness, and Taylor's body convulsed. Lanee looked into his eyes with horror and saw that the once happy shade of green that occupied his irises had now become a pure, gleaming yellow. The Force sent her reeling, emanating from his palm. She gasped in pain at the impact against a pillar, but gathered herself fast and dashed to the shaft she had entered from, summoning the Force to bound a great distance back upwards to the main chamber. Taylor followed her, stalking her with his saber ignited, breathing heavily and no longer himself. Veshiram floated up the shaft behind him as lightly as a feather, his arms folded behind his back.

"Come now, this is an exercise in futility," Veshiram chided. "Taylor is much too strong for you now. And he will do _exactly_ what I say."

"Lanee," Ryker breathed, appearing by her side. She had thought he had fled. "He is going to do what Ven attempted to do to me. I see it now – his end game. The wounds Ven inflicted on Veshiram years ago; he will control Taylor to sacrifice himself to the Ascent and power it that so that he might use it to build himself a new body."

Lanee's heart jumped to her throat.

"What can we do?" she whispered back. Taylor was approaching, spurred on by Veshiram's mad laughter.

"Only a whole body can be used to heal a cripple such as Veshiram," Ryker cited. "Either we kill him, or we maim him. But we cannot allow Veshiram to use him as he is. The result would be...an unmitigated disaster, for the whole galaxy."

"Alright," Lanee said, scrounging for resolve. A pensive rupture struck her as she drew her saber next to Ryker, who produced his own. Together the pair faced down Taylor, assuming stances in preparation to strike him down. Try as she might to banish the emotions that bombarded her, Lanee found it impossible. And with sadness, old and new, she watched as Taylor came within striking distance. A breeze by her side drifted by her cheek, like fingers. "Ryker?"

But he was gone. And she was alone.

"Damn you..." she whispered to the wind she hoped would reach him, then leapt forth into battle.

Taylor was not Taylor. Whatever enraptured spirit possessed him conducted battle in a way that Lanee knew she could not hope to match. As the man she had considered her closest ally swung his lightsaber, that she had helped him to construct not so long ago, Lanee felt defeated. This time, she thought with a mind distant from the battle, there was nothing to hope for. She had always thought that Ryker was recoverable – and perhaps she still did. But witnessing Taylor's symbiosis with this tremendous evil, she knew. He was gone.

And then in that bleakest moment, words came back to her that she had forgotten. Something Master Zemner had said to her that first day in the temple, as she walked with him to meditate with the other Padawans.

 _"It isn't so far," he said, smiling with closed eyes. "The journey's end, that is. As long as we stay true to who we are, the Light will hold us. It will bind us, keep us together." He put his old, strong hand on her young, nervous back, steadying her shoulders. "You have it," he said, patting her gently. "You have it."_

Snapping back to her senses, Lanee found herself in a deadlock of plasma, Taylor's bloodthirsty visage on the other end. She peered into his eyes, and aligned herself internally. She found her strength by ceasing to doubt that she had it at all.

"Taylor," she whispered to him, knowing his true self would hear. "I am so, so sorry."

With a twist of her blade, Lanee severed Taylor's sword arm. And hours later, as she and Duststorm hurtled through the soundless vacuum, she could still hear his anguished screams.

 **"OH, MASTER," RYKER** hummed. Ven's ragged breathing was sharp spikes of sound through the speaker in his mask. He had put much faith in Lanee up above, but this was far too important, and time was against him. Ryker had slipped down to the catacombs, where his body would no doubt be dumped and rotting, being reduced to the soup on the ground had Ven had his way. There were not enough precious minutes for him to do this the way he had wanted, but he could make this suffice.

Ven looked up at his student, his neck barely finding the necessary strength to support his heavy head.

"Here, let me help," Ryker said, pulling back the hood and removing Ven's mask. He looked upon the man who had given him everything. Taught him of a universe grander than Ryker had ever hoped existed. If one did not know any better, they would look at Ven and think that he was a dashing man of importance, perhaps a politician. Ryker traced the chiseled lines of Ven's face with his fingers, drawing to a point on his chin.

"Worry not. You might not feel like it now, but know that you have achieved that perfection you so righteously fought for," Ryker mused. "Through me."

Ryker's lightsaber ripped through Ven's heart, and as their eyes met, the master drew his last breath.

 **TO BE CONTINUED...**


	4. Axiom

**CHAPTER FOUR - AXIOM**

 **IN QUIET RECITATION: "** There is no emotion; there is peace."

She breathed. The air filled her lungs and her chest expanded to compensate.

"There is no ignorance; there is knowledge."

It was routine.

"There is no passion; there is serenity."

She felt the spaces in and around her, but there was nothing, but she was sure that was once wrong.

"There is no chaos; there is harmony."

Maybe she was why.

"There is no death; there is the Force."

Lanee opened her eyes. Despite what she wanted, the environment never seemed to reflect the circumstances. Taylor or no Taylor, Duststorm would likely remain the same. Looks, smells, sounds - all of it. A ship that was a home had lost its tenant, but there was no reflection of that fact anywhere. Perhaps that was one of many small injustices of the universe, but for a Jedi, it wasa blessing. It made her code easier to follow when things seemed not to care.

But that wasn't truly the Jedi code, was it? To not care. Nihilism couldn't be the goal of a guardian of peace. Why protect a life that was meaningless? There had to be a love of life at the heart of it all. There had to be compassion.

And that made it very hard for her to ignore the suffering, and the betrayal, of her friends.

Time had cauterized the wound that Ryker left, and the mountain of experience she took upon herself to absorb in the training that occupied most of her adolesence and early adulthood buried whatever pain was left. But Taylor's was a fresh hole, and a monument to her deepest fear – that she had learned nothing at all, despite her vow to never let the darkness claim another. Now there were two out there, each instruments of strife in their own capacities, and Lanee could not help but feel responsible. That Taylor's enslavement and Ryker's fall were her doing was a thought that she could no longer banish. History, it seemed, was doomed to repeat itself.

Veshiram had warned her about cycles.

Her next move was mandatory, though, and it gave her the conviction she neded to keep from stagnating in her own mire of thoughts. She glanced from the floor up at the controls and saw the green light of the communications relay. It indicated Coruscant had a connection. Lanee stepped towards it, and pressed her fingers on the button. The waves relayed, and parity was met. It was a young Padawan assigned to clerical duties who answered her call.

"This is Patrol Zero-One-Six of Sector Z-A3," she spoke into the microphone.

"Yes, Jedi Knight Lanee Bindo, how may I assist?" the young boy answered with cool practice.

"I need audience with Master Zemner immediately. I have a matter of urgent galactic security at hand."

"Right away."

 **IT WASN'T CONSTANT.** There was an ebb and flow. The rage, and the power that came with it, peaked only when Veshiram needed it to. Little valleys appeared in the moments of reserve that he was allowed, and in those dips, Taylor found space to think. His conclusions were varied. Control of basic functions was turned over to him when it wasn't necessary for the more granular tuning of the Rage Seed. He knew what he was doing was often not of his own volition, nor of his moral leanings. He never wanted to fight Lanee, although he deeply mourned the loss of his arm. She had been angry herself; he had sensed it. Jedi did not strike out of anger, so why did she cause him so much damage? He could not come to an answer. The Rage Seed could not seem to help him.

Their departure from the planet had been immediate and swift, he and Master Veshiram. The latter spoke of great things forthcoming, and did so in a way that made Taylor happy. His thirst for adventure was something the Master seemed to understand and want to satiate. He would allow Taylor to use his new strength to open doors for himself, to reach new heights. That was essentially all he'd ever wanted, and it just made so much _sense_ for things to be the way they were. First, however, they had to outfit him with a prosthetic so that he might regain usage of both arms. That was to be done at a very reputable biomech shop Veshiram knew well.

"I've seen their work," Master Veshiram assured Taylor. "It is _most_ impressive."

Taylor found himself smiling. He liked the way the words felt.

The prevailing sensation was that of just having woken from a luxurious nap. The sharpening of his senses and the increased focus the Seed afforded him allowed Taylor new insight. It wasn't that the Seed's influence was resulting in his abilities, but rather that it was freeing him to pursue what he had always wanted without the layers of inhibition years of living inefficiently had built. Like the water edging away the banks of a muddy river, carrying the sediment away down stream. The most important part was that he was still able to choose, despite not being able to make choices. Being honest with himself was the first step – Taylor had always wanted to be a Jedi, to wield the Force as they did, and effect change upon his surroundings. Now he could.

But still, his inate and nagging curiosity eventually prompted him to pose Veshiram a question.

"Master, what is the next step? What is the larger plan?"

Veshiram seemed lost in thought, and rather dismissive. Still, he spoke.

"Oh, after your arm? I suppose we'll go...build an army." He smiled.

 **RYKER WAS FACED** with a dillemma: He simply couldn't decide what kind of tea he wanted to make. The ship's pantry had been bare; the most common item was a nutrient paste Ven had favored. Ryker's first decision was to space the bitter junk. From his quarters, he carried a satchel containing his private stash that he had accumulated at every opportunity. He had been the one to shop and restock the ship during shore time, but the rigors of having Ven for a master meant there was a distinct lack of room for luxury items. Ryker now produced bottles of Corellian wine and various cheeses and dry fruits, loaves of bright bread, and anything else he had managed to conceal. Eventually he settled on a berry tea from Malastare. Satisfied, Ryker ate his first real meal in days, soon finding his hunger to be ravenous and his thirst immense. Ven preached meditation techniques, sustaining onself off of the smallest amounts of energy. Efficiency only the Force could provide, but that was their privilege as its commanders. Every bite was in defiance to those words he had yet to drown out, stuck on replay in Ryker's brain.

When he finished at last, Ryker sat back and sighed, staring at the ship's ceiling and listening to its ambiance. A drifting thought popped up – he could outfit the ship with a soundsystem, using the intercoms, and play music…

On the whole, Ryker quickly came to realize he had absolutely no idea what to do with his freedom.

The plan was still very much in action, however. He had sent the broadcast to Korriban even as he hurtled away from the Apex Ascent hours before. His lieutenant, a young female Sith Hopeful had welcomed the news with joy, and swore to immediately enact the next phase. When Ryker would return to the Valley of the Dark Lords, his cloak sweeping grandly behind him in the dust, he knew the grin he would not be able to keep from his face. The coup would be swift and easy, as there were not many who would challenge his sizeable faction. The current headmaster was a Selkath from the lineage of those weak attempts at Sith Malak had overseen on Manaan. He would crumple as easily as a ball of paper. Ryker toyed with a droplet of tea he had spilled on the table, lost in thought.

There was one thing, however, that he would have to do before the ship truly became his.

Rising, Ryker intended to enter his master's meditation room. Some obstacle asserted itself first, however. Ryker experienced a hesitation he was not anticipating. He had no idea why.

The corridor leading to the room itself was dark, always dark. Ryker walked with is head up high, but a chill palpated his spine, and it was no longer a trepidation he could ignore. It was as if some warning was all around him, but he was deaf to its voice. He did not want to enter the room, but he did so anyway, out of pride and out of necessity. He found it shaded and still.

The story of who Ven was in life was not easily gleaned from his personal effects. His quarters were the definition of sparse, and only the meditation room offered some insight into his interests. Ryker knew there was an impressive collection of holocrons, but the sheer number of them was staggering. He had never seen Ven acquire even a fourth of these. What could they possibly contain? Secrets that would make Ryker stronger, with any luck. But it would take a long time to sift through the legion of hedronic shapes, to activate each and coax out its secrets. On a pedestal in the middle, however, just beneath the single dim light fixture in the room, was the holocron he had procured from Tersi for Ven, aboard that smuggler's ship. Lord Silarith brooded inside; Ryker could sense it.

In his time, Silarith had been an accomplished archaeologist fascinated with the Infinite Empire and its stewards, the Rakata. Ven, somehow, had learned that he might know the location of the Apex Ascent. Indeed, Ven had almost excitedly revealed that it was likely Silarith's body was at the installation, somewhere. Ryker cared little for such details, but now in the presence of the holocron, he had a strange urge to activate it. Perhaps because it was the only one he could be sure he could have an actual conversation with, although he did know that Ven employed some kind of translation protocol running through the intercom's software.

The holocron stirred at his touch, and Lord Silarith's image burst forth. He gave a critical study of Ryker's frame, and apparently did not like what he saw. Most holocrons were like that.

"You are not the one who woke me before. Tell me, frail boy, who might you be?" Silarith snarled.

"I am Ryker. This is my ship." Silarith scoffed.

"So said the last user. At least he was something respectable. Quite a strong Sith, that one. You...you do not look like one worthy of my time, but something in your stance makes me curious. Was the other one your master, by chance?"

"He was," Ryker said softly, then shrugged, smirking. "I killed him." Silarith raised his eyebrows at that revelation, and fell silent for a moment.

Then he burst out laughing.

The volume of his cackle was high. Distubingly so, in fact. Ryker cast a careful glance about the room, noticing the activation of tiny red lights on many of the holocrons. Silarith continued his nosiy racket, despite Ryker's raised hand. More activated. Inhuman sounds began to emanate, quiet at first, but growing louder and louder. They did not like to be stirred from their slumber. They did not like Ryker.

"They do not care for you, boy," Silarith said, settling down some. The chittering admonishments the Rakatan spirits were issuing him froze his blood in a way that nothing else ever had. These beasts were in a class all of their own. Ryker felt burning hatred when he looked at their ugly faces, the tubular eye protrusions and the nasty, scaly grey skin. He turned back to Silarith.

"You're the Rakatan expert. How do I silence them?"

"You have to earn their respect," Silarith said with a grin. "Their culture prominently featured honor, and love of strength. You do not seem to present such qualities as your master did. Tell me, how did he die?"

Ryker stayed silent. It seemed these onlookers were demanding the answer be, "fair combat". But it wasn't. Surely Silarith, a Sith in his time, understood...but something held Ryker back from telling the holocron. That mounting anger was now flowing through his system. What answers did he owe these machines? They were nothing more than projections of those who had failed to continue living. They were gone, and he was there, alive and strong, despite Silarith's mocking blows.

"You murdered him, didn't you?" Silarith mused. The feverish war chants pounded in Ryker's ears, beating his chest. "You waited until he was weakened, and then you delivered the final blow. _Deceit_."

Ryker narrowed his eyes and bared his teeth. The chorus of Rakatan was being translated, now. "Weakling. Liar. Deceiver. Coward." He shrugged them off. All but one. "Traitor."

Traitor.

 _That_ was the one he could not abide.

"Once a traitor," Silarith said, grinning smugly. " _Always_ a -"

Ryker screamed, rearing back his head and summoning a tempest of lightning from his palms. It crashed into the walls, scouring for electronics. The blitz of energy was so great its sound drowned out the uproar of the holocrons, and as the blue tendrils gyrated around the room, destruction was left in their wake. Everything was destroyed in a glorious bath of power, and Ryker laughed and laughed until his head was light and his jaw hurt, until he collapsed to his knees and swore to himself that the moronic entities in those capsules hadn't the feintest clue what they were talking about. Now they lied smoking and dead, crisp black husks littering the room. He considered the paint job that would be necessary to glaze over the scorch marks.

He had never betrayed anyone that didn't betray him first.

 _ **IT HAD BEEN**_ _a boring summer. After the burnoffs of the crop stubs, there wasn't much to do for Lanee and Ryker, and in the simmering, bubbling sunlight they lay on their backs and disected clouds. There was a burning suggestion that Lanee felt close to making, but Ryker, always the cooler head, would almost certainly shoot it down. The boredom, however, overtook all else and at last she could no longer wait._

" _Hey...want to try to find the Crystal Cave?" she asked casually._

" _You mean the one place on this planet that everyone agrees is actually dangerous?" Ryker laughed. "Why are you so interested?"_

" _I want to see the crystals," she justified simply. "It sounds so pretty."_

" _There used to be a Kinrath nest in there. Everyone says so," Ryker replied._

 _"Used to be," Lanee corrected. "It's just as safe now as anywhere else. The hunters don't let anything live around here anymore."_

 _"You sound upset about that," Ryker noticed. She stood, brushing the dirt from her skirt, and shrugged._

 _"I like animals."_

 _Ryker had to concede that was true. The pair never had to fear the roaming Kath hounds in their expeditions. He, and everyone else that had met Lanee, assumed it was something in the utter calm she seemed to radiate at all times, as sure as the warm Dantooine sun._

 _They had some idea where the cave was; most people did. It was a popular bit of local lore. Carved into the side of small hill it was, a dark and damp nook in the earth. The rich smell of the soil greeted their noses as they brushed away the dangling strands of scraggly roots. The wind whistled a low note when it drifted past the cave's mouth, but soon enough that sound, and the light from outside, was gone. Only the white glow of their flashlights remained. Ryker did not appreciate the itchy, crawling feeling that fell upon his skin when he imagined the spidery Kinrath, skittering about in the dark – but there were none to be found. The cave was still._

 _And at last, after two strangely tense minutes of silent walking, they crystal chamber bloomed into view._

 _Lanee drew an audible breath. The wide area was painted with swaths of many different colors, and the light they refracted spread across the walls in little pools of color. A tall, winding spiral of green snaked its way to the ceiling; a stout patch of yellow bumps protruded from the floor in the corner. There was a small outcrop of purple blooming from the wall, which Lanee somehow knew to be rarer than the other colors. But the ones that held her attention, the ones that swept her away and made her gaze distant and mouth hang open in thought, were the blue crystals. She knelt before them, her face awash in their essence, entirely captivated. Ryker placed his hands on his hips and cast a wide glance around the room, acknowledging their splendor but not quite understanding his friend's rapturous enjoyment of the things. She was clearly experiencing something he was not._

 _It would be some time until the Force chose to speak to him, too._

" **LANEE," MASTER ZEMNER** said warmly, his voice grainy when filtered through the transmission across space. His eyes had a way of smiling even when his mouth did not, although it was certainly smiling this time. "It is so good to hear from you, though I hear circumstances are not favorable."

"Master," Lanee responded, tilting her head. She suddenly felt more at peace with his hologram than she had in months. "I wish I did not have such dire news."

"Speak," he gently commanded, looking at her from beneath twin fuzzy eyebrows. "I can guarantee I've heard worse before."

"I've...found something, out here in the Rim. And so have the Sith. But they have the advantage, and I need assistance."

"I will spare all I can," Zemner said immediately. But Lanee shook her head.

"No, this is not a matter for the Order. We will need to enlist the Republic Fleet, I'm afraid."

Zemner eyed her gravely. "And just how big is this thing you've found?"

"It is a large facility. A Rakatan facility." The Jedi all knew the name. They had studied the Infinite Empire after Revan's reveal of it to the galaxy. It had been decided after the battle at the Star Forge that any further pieces of technology like it, were such things discovered, would be destroyed swiftly, for they all indeed fed upon the Dark Side. When Master Zemner heard the word, he quickly took to the protocol.

"Right away then. Allow me to patch us through to more appropriate channels," he said, looking down and fiddling with his terminal. "I have an old friend who seems perfect for this..." A new connection was established, encrypted with standard Republic Military code. The Republic crest briefly flashed into a hologram next to Master Zemner, before being overtaken by a stately looking human woman in full Navy décor.

"This is Admiral Yllona of the Republic Fleet. Master Zemner, it's good to hear from you again."

"Likewise, Admiral," Zemner agreed cheerfully. The proud assembly of Republic warships and fighters dotting the distant black horizon of space beyond her was always a comforting sight. Lanee found herself missing the noise and bluster of civilization; it had been years she'd spent on the Outer Rim. The thought of returing to her home at the Temple was warm and enticing.

"I understand one of your Knights has valuable intelligence for us," Yllona said. She looked towards the display showing Lanee's face within Duststorm's cabin.

"Correct, Ma'am. My name is Lanee Bindo, and I am assigned to Outer Rim patrol. I will summarize the situation briefly, and recommend you act with all haste." The Admiral nodded for Lanee to continue, folding her arms. "I am currently transmitting the coordinates of an off-chart world. Rakatan technology, dangerous much in the same way the Star Forge was, is present on the planet surface. Simply put, Admiral, there are dangerous entities who are aware of and seek to use this technology, and if they are allowed to do so, disaster will befall the Republic. The only way to prevent this as I see it..." she hovered, looking at the Admiral with direct intent, "Is orbital bombardment. This facility must be annihilated entirely."

"That's a bold claim," Yllona said seriously. "But if Master Zemner recommends it, I will certainly authorize the order myself."

"I do, Admiral," Zemner affirmed with simplicity. She nodded.

"Very well, then. I've known your master long enough to know to listen when he speaks." She smiled firmly at Lanee, who decided she rather liked the seasoned woman. "I would like to know just how you came across this information, though."

"I can say that I have had the misfortune of visiting the site myself, Admiral," Lanee answered softly. The Admiral paused for a moment, deciding that the answer had a lot more to it than at face value. The Admiral then turned her head, pressing two fingers into the communication device in her ear.

"You heard 'em. Glass it."

 _ **DRAGGING HIS USELESS**_ _legs through the rocky sand wasn't the hardest part. That distinction belonged to maintaining the mental fortitude necessary to bend the Force in such a way as to keep the nerves from spilling out of his spine. Veshiram ignored the pain entirely, and instead focused on the overriding emotion that blazed in his chest: Zealous joy. The Ascent would reward him well for his injuries. He did not regret letting his pupil injure him in the slightest._

 _It was a gamble that he had been willing to take. Ven could have killed him, as low as he let his guard, but he wanted to make sure that the injuries were definitively crippling, beyond any shadow of doubt. He did so hate to leave anything to chance, but sometimes it was necessary. The Sith, addled as they were, could not seem to understand that. The ancient adage of freeing something you love stood the test of time, here. Veshiram could read the portents much better than they could. He knew his plan showed auspicious promise, if only they would accept it. But he would need to become stronger to force them to capitulate. Much stronger._

 _Further plans were clearer – he knew how the Ascent worked, and what it required in return for its services. But he knew that Ven knew as well. He would take an apprentice, raise it to appropriate strength, and then sacrifice it. Veshiram resigned to be a silent observer, waiting until the day when that happened. Then he would strike, stealing the rejuvenating powers for himself and eliminating the strongest Sith all at once. In the meantime, he would quite literally plant the seeds of an army. And upon his rise to godhood with the help of that unholy Rakatan engine, he would activate his followers, and the resulting eruption from underneath the Republic and Jedi's feet would topple them with ease. He kept envisioning it to keep the agony at bay as he trudged into his cave. It was exquisite. The hard part was the wait._

 **VESHIRAM REGARDED HIS** creation with pride. But with that pride mingled a sense of disappointment – the imperfection he suffered after the unfortunate incident with the girl was a set back to his plans. Ultimately, it was only a matter of time, but he did so hate waiting. It put him a rather inert mood, a brown shade of boredom that took longer to dispel for each moment he spent in it. Taylor seemed to not mind his new cybernetic arm that much, but to Veshiram, the thing was disgusting. It represented more than one thing he hated.

There were others. Seven at the Temple, and two graduates, elsewhere in the galaxy. He needed just one, though it would be difficult to acquire any of them. The Padawans at the Temple were in a place he simply could not go, and the other two would require time to locate. The galaxy was a big place, and they could be doing any number of Jedi things across its many systems. Veshiram drummed his fingers on the table of his ship, his heavy face held up by a tired hand. Perhaps it was time to make a new one; that might just be quicker.

"Taylor, fetch me the blood sampler," Veshiram drawled through his thick fingers. Taylor did as ordered, setting it down on the table before his master. "Thank you," he told Taylor dryly. "I suppose just..." he sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Just set us down at the next station or something. Just make sure there are people there."

He would have to make contact with his feelers once more, too. Finding a Force Sensitive was not enormously difficult, but it did take some legwork. Veshiram supposed he was lucky to have Taylor around now, for he could perform the task quite adequately. In the mean time, Veshiram planned to enter a long meditative hibernation, to save himself some of the pain of the doldrums now besetting him.

"Oh, but Taylor, there is one final matter," Veshiram called, remembering.

"Yes, master?" Taylor replied pleasantly.

"Your lightsaber. Where is it?" Taylor handed Veshiram the hilt, who began to turn the thing over in his hands, observing the craftsmanship.

"I'm impressed you built this yourself," he praised.

"I watched you do it. I remembered the steps," Taylor revealed.

"Ah. Of course. A strong memory is a good quality. But here, this will not do. Leave this thing with me, and take this – the very one you saw me crafting that day."

Taylor's fingers curled around the new hilt, which was a tad bit shorter and cast in a rougher metal. The emitter shroud was somewhat larger, too, and jet black. Sith runes were emblazoned throughout. He ignited it, and a red blade of plasma burst forth.

"There," Veshiram said with a faint smile. "Much better."

 **HIS RETURN WAS** met with optimism. Twin rows of dark robes kneeling in respect. He passed between, counting the bowed heads, and he glowed with pride. Ryker never knew how much he'd wanted this until it was is.

The bodies of those who would not capitulate lay strewn across the foyer. Most disadvantageous for them was their lack of true leadership – there was, and had not been, no unifying force behind which they could rally against Ryker's followers. Ven had never cared to establish such a sect for himself, and the others who called themselves Lords of the Sith were too disinterested with the youth of a new generation. It was their downfall. Only Lord Dominus has sought to consolidate his power on Korriban, but unlike his adopted moniker, he was not a presence often felt in its dusty shadows. It was mostly those who merely thought they might be loyal to him that made up the dead.

"And where might he be?" Ryker asked his chosen lieutenant, pulled away from the others.

"Dominus was away on business. He is expected to return shortly, but he will sense this, certainly," she replied. Her name was Xander, a young woman not quite Ryker's age but exceedingly competent at managing his affairs while he was with Ven.

"And turn tail, yes," Ryker thought out loud. "I'd rather he didn't get away. I'd like to be done with all of this in short order."

"Yes, my lord," Xander answered. "But it is hard to say at what distance he will be competent enough to perceive the waiting trap."

Ryker shrugged. "If he lands here, he is dead. See to it. If he never does, so be it. He has no one to back him. We will meet eventually." She nodded in the affirmative.

The Headmaster's Quarters were now his. It wasn't a particularly prestigious line of Sith that preceded him, though Ryker wasn't entirely sure that he was in fact a, "headmaster". He had no intent to conduct things as they had been done in Revan's time, and had been attempted to be done since. The Sith had withered without true direction, and were hungry for victory once more. Ultimately, that was Veshiram's problem: Lack of public appeal. Ryker said the right things and looked the right way, a sleek manifestation of strength, with youthful, unblemished vigor to garner the sympathy of a new generation. He new his advantages, and was too smart to squander them. Ven had been a respected master, and his slaying of the man cemented Ryker's status amongst those who followed him.

But there was something lingering, and its repulsive grey skin and manipulative capabilities made Ryker thoroughly uneasy. He could not rest, even as he sat in quiet meditation, the single illuminating beam from the skylight in the ceiling falling across him. Ryker stretched out across the stone halls with his perceptions, inching across the vast history entwined with the walls themselves. Like smoke stains from many fires he tasted the influence, catching fleeting images of days gone by when the glory of Revan's Empire was at its zenith. It was a short lived thing. Not just the Empire that established this place, no, but the place itself. For despite the well of power it sat upon, despite the red energy seeping from the tombs in the valley below, it was not meant to stay here. It was an aberration, something new in a place of old – much like Ryker himself. He opened his eyes, having seen the future.

He was to lead the Sith in exodus.

 **IT WAS ALMOST** foreign, for on the surface, she had forgotten. Deeper though, in her fibers, she remembered Coruscant, the Temple, her training. It was a part of her that would never lag behind, and as Lanee set Duststorm down on a landing pad, a timeless calm set over her. The Jedi Temple had a way of healing through proximity. She felt her soul edifying, strengthening. Civilians with business and robed Jedi with their Padawans strolled through the amber halls. It was more people than she was accustomed to seeing in one place, yet it was all so quiet. There was a softness about the place that did not easily leave her. It was comforting – it was home.

And Master Zemner's smile seemed to take away the weight resting upon her shoulders.

"It has been four years since you left this place," he said, eyeing her down his nose. He put his hands on her biceps firmly; it felt good. "You've done some growing."

"Master," she said, and only then did Lanee hear how tired she was in her own voice.

"Lanee," he replied kindly. "It is so good to have you back."

He advocated rest and nourishment before they talked, and Lanee listened to her former teacher. She always did, and never found fault in his methods. Besides that, though, it simply felt right. She could not maintain. She was on the brink of collapse.

A lack of sleep and a thin diet widely supplemented by Force-aided persistence had worn her ragged. She was worried she would find it hard to rest without the noises of space travel she had become so accustomed to, but those fears proved insubstantial quickly. She gratefully accepted a basin of warm water from a knocking servant on her door, and bathed herself properly. Fresh fruit from the kitchen waited for her when she stepped out, draped in a towel. Lanee had been so eager to leave and join the ranks of the patrols, but that now seemed like another lifetime altogether. She didn't want to leave the Temple again.

"Your walk," Zemner said as they strolled through the garden. "That's where I see it. It's guilt. It echoes in your voice too, in the hollow spaces between words."

"Believe me, master, I have attempted all methods to purge it. But I can't," she said.

"Then it is there for a reason," he said. "We're so quick to rid ourselves of our negative emotions that we don't pause to consider why we have them in the first place. Perhaps that is one of the shortcomings of our teachings." Lanee bowed her head. "Don't fret. Just tell me everything."

She did. She told him of tracking Ven and Ryker across countless systems, standing in the ruin of their wake. She told him of meeting Taylor, saving him from Ven, only to lose him to a different darkness. He knew immediately; Lanee could see it. Zemner saw the parallels that eroded her confidence and left her cold, because she had once told him during her training of her friend back home, Ryker.

"I see," he said, stopping to rest on a bench. "I see, I see." He took a long moment to gather his thoughts. "You know, many would consider what you have done to be impressive. The Republic fleet moves to destroy this Apex Ascent as we speak, and to have survived encounters with no less than three Sith...some would even find that promotion worthy."

Lanee was taken aback to hear that aloud. "I certainly don't see myself as…"

"As a Jedi Master?" he asked. "Neither did I. But a master I became. So too could you. You are strong in a way few are. The Force swells around you like a hurricane. It is no accident that your influence is what it is."

"You're speaking of Ryker and Taylor," she said.

"Of course. Two powerful users of the Force in their own right. The Force has a way of bringing its adherents together, you see."

"But master," she said painfully. "How could I possibly become a master myself, only to take on a student of my own and...fail again?"

"You didn't fail them. Not in the slightest. Ryker made his choice for himself. Free will isn't always the thing we want it to be. But for Taylor, he was not afforded the luxury of choice." He focused his gaze on his former student. "He's still out there, somewhere. And only you, I suspect, can hear him."

She saw him, then, for a brief moment. Just one flash. He was her responsibility, her charge. It didn't matter how much she was afraid to fail. Only she could change things. So with the sun shining down on that garden, she listened to the birds chirp, and smiled the way she knew Taylor would. Then, she was reminded of something she knew she must tell her master.

"There is something more. I can't allow myself to be so preoccupied with my personal struggles," Lanee said. "Taylor's affliction stems from a particular Sith who troubles me far more than Ven ever did."

"I was wondering when we'd get to this," Master Zemner replied. "It is always this way with their kind – tiered, the next problem only visible from the height of the previous one. It is because of how they use each other for their own gain."

"Yes, I see that," Lanee said. "However, this Sith seems particularly adept at the practice. Ryker feared him greatly. He was Ven's master, and his name was Veshiram."

The old man Zemner stiffened. "Have you met him?" he softly inquired.

"I have. And he was odd, even for a Sith. He tricked us – he tricked me, at first, with a false identity. He made it seem as though Ven were the true threat, that the Apex Ascent was a problem to both of us."

"He is good at that," Zemner said to the ground quietly.

"Do you know him, Master? He skimmed through my thoughts with such ease, and he seemed to recognize you." Lanee shook her head. "I don't know how he did it."

"Indeed I do. You have met a monster, in every sense of the word." He looked at Lanee with wrinkled concern. "He was no Jedi. Always a Sith. From whence, I do not know. In the years after the war, after the Triumvirate was dismantled by the Exile, he appeared. There were no Sith, then – not in the way we know them now. Just ghosts. But he was strong, stronger than anyone without a powerful master had a right to be."

"How did you encounter him?" she asked.

"He always knew they would return," he told her grimly. "Despite what we told the Republic, and what they in turn told the galaxy. Revan's Sith were not the true Sith, merely imitators. When he left in silence, without telling the Council, we knew it was for one reason only – he had remembered what he found that blackened his soul the first time. The True Sith lie in wait. And Veshiram might just be their vanguard." He turned to Lanee. "Do you know why we even have patrols such as yours on the Outer Rim? When our numbers are so few and resources stretched so thin? It is so we will have advanced warning when they return. You are not merely police in a distant realm; you are scouts."

"I do so gladly," Lanee returned. "I perform my duties, regardless."

"I know," he said with a sad smile. "That is what makes you, you. There is no one better suited to your task. We are lucky to have you."

Lanee bowed her head to accept the compliment, though she was not finished. "If there is a larger Sith presence, then what is Veshiram doing here, now? He seems at odds with the current Sith."

"Most likely because they perceive him as a threat. Their pride sets them against him. As for his machinations, given what he has demonstrated with poor Taylor, there only seems to be one logical thing." Zemner gave a resigned sigh. "He is building his masters an army."

 **THE END OF** a hyerspace lane was a bit like the end of a massive, twisting slide. You didn't see the end until it was upon you, and it came all at once. The Republic cruiser Crashing Wave was a Hammerhead vessel dispatched to a sector none of the crew knew about, nor had even heard of, but moved in confidence nonetheless. Outfitted with turbolasers overcharged to twenty times the typical payload, they prepared to rain down democratic justice upon an unassuming world of flora and fauna.

"Admiral, the ship has rounded and is in position. We have the targeting vector locked in," the first mate informed. Admiral Safra took a look out the viewscreen to confirm. Whatever this desolate green ball of mud contained was about to be obliterated.

"Acknowledged. Fire when ready."

The whine of the turbolasers filled the cabin and, indeed, the entire ship. Everyone wanted to get this over with quickly and return home. It was an old navy superstition; being too far out into the unknown gaps between the well-traveled lanes and known space for too long would make a crew go mad. Something in the void did it.

They were not wrong.

"Roger that. Delivering ordinance." Switches were flipped, and buttons were pressed. It was all very formal, crisp and clean. There was a faint glow around the side of the proud Republic ship as it prepared to fire. And then, nothing at all.

"What just happened?" Admiral Safra asked, looking around at his crew in confusion. On all sides, he was surrounded by fistfulls of well trained experts, but all of them were bewildered.

"Something is sapping the power conduit to the turbolasers," someone at last piped up, looking at a read-out chart on his monitor. Indeed, there was a red line drawing from the central reactor to the weapons systems.

"What the hell..." Safra mumbled. It was the last line he ever spoke before a red beam of energy ruptured through is chest from his back. It held there for a moment, the lightsaber sizzling away at the flesh and clothing. Then he dropped to the floor, dead.

" **MASTER ZEMNER!" CRIED** the young Padawan. He charged into the garden where they sat, ignoring Lanee but thrusting a communicator into Zemner's face. "You have an urgent call from Admiral Yllona. She says she must speak to you immediately."

Master Zemner narrowed his eyebrows. He took the black oval into his hands and activated it; a mini-hologram of the Admiral spilled out into his lap. "Master Zemner. Dire news."

"Speak," he said, with more roughness than Lanee was accustomed to.

"The ship we dispatched to the system your Knight specified...it's gone dark. Total communications blackout. Going on six hours now."

Lanee looked at her master, but he did not return the glance. She felt like she knew the answer the question about to be asked.

"Dire news indeed. The Temple will investigate further; I'll dispatch a squadron immediately," Master Zemner assured the Admiral.

"Thank you. Your assistance would be appreciated. Now, between you and me...just what the hell did I send a crew of three-hundred into?"

"I'll let Lanee answer," he said simply.

"I didn't think they would have stayed in the system," she said, confused. "Taylor needed medical attention. There was no reason..." Then a chill gripped her. There was someone she was forgetting. "Master. I need to go. Right away." He nodded to her.

"So be it," Zemner said solemnly.

" _ **I'M GOING TO**_ _Coruscant," Lanee said to Ryker. They were standing on a windy hill, on yet another summer day, doing much the same as always. "I'm going to become a Jedi Knight."_

" _But why?" Ryker asked, doing his best to feign disinterest. Inside, he was gutted. "The Jedi aren't what they used to be. You know that. Just look at the ruins of their school, here. They don't even have the power to rebuild it."_

" _Just because the Jedi can't be seen doesn't mean they're gone," she said._

" _I didn't say gone, did I? Just worthless," Ryker replied._

" _I don't understand why you hate them so much," Lanee asked, confused and somewhat hurt._

" _I don't understand why you don't."_

 _That night, a storm blew into their settlement, and a violent one at that. Ryker remembered the brooding moments he spent in his window, watching the dark swirls blacken the dark blue sky, and the white splinters of lightning cracking it all apart. He was seething. His best friend was leaving. They used to plan their escape from this grassy prison together. Ryker supposed that was gone now, too._

 _Then, like the furious black winds outside, objects in Ryker's modest room began to spiral. He didn't notice at first, lost in his rage as he was, but as it crested, the Force began to stir the environment. First it was articles of clothing, rustled gently. They rose to the ceiling, as did other person effects. When Ryker looked up with tear-stung eyes, his mouth opened before twisting into a snarl. Finally, it seemed, something had broken in his favor. If she could, then so could he. All of the tiny flaunts she had been making since that day in the cave – the lifting, the persuasions. Those were his now too and, he suspected, more to follow. Much more._

" **I NEED YOUR** help," Lanee wrote, signing her name. It was her note in a bottle, cast out into the sea of space. She hoped Ryker would find it, and that it might move some small shred of humanity left within him. It was a message broadcast on a frequency any ship entering or leaving Korriban would hear, which meant few would, but with any luck…

Lanee and two Jedi from the Temple were strapped into their fighters. She elected to leave Duststorm behind in favor of something more agile. It also didn't feel quite like "hers", though she'd never truly owned a ship of her own. Her travelling companions were veterans, and people she could trust. Ujiri was an Iktotchi male, and Rannawann a Wookie male. Both were Knights, though Master Zemner implicitly placed control of the operation under Lanee's command. She begrudgingly accepted.

"We're ready when you are," Ujiri noted over the comm. She looked up from the canopy at the approaching night sky, like blue bleeding into orange. Not for the last time, she swore to herself. The next time, it would be with her apprentice.

Three starfighters roared away into space.

"These coordinates...you weren't kidding," Ujri said once they broke away from the atmosphere. "This is some ways away." Rannawann growled his agreement.

"It will take sometime. I suggest you meditate. Conflict is surely ahead," Lanee responded. This was a game of imperfect information, but the Force whispered disturbing things to her. There was a presence she knew well, but it not the same. Not entirely.

A thought popped into her head. It was a small thing, but those typically ended up being larger beneath the surface. She called Master Zemner.

"How goes your trip?" he asked warmly.

"Fine so far. There's something I hope you'll be able to help me with," she answered. "These Sith we're dealing with – they're fragmented."

"As they often are," Zemner agreed.

Lanee chewed her lip hesitantly. "Is there any strategic value in attempting to turn Ryker's faction against Veshiram?"

Zemner chortled. "Surely you're capable of answering that question yourself. I think what you're really asking is, will I grant you permission to attempt to save Ryker from the fate he barrels towards." Lanee frowned, but did not speak. "Is he in power on Korriban, now?"

"I have a good sense that he is," she answered.

"Then do as you see fit. Be organic with it. Shape your plan to fit the situation as it evolves. There is nothing absolute about our work, now."

"Thank you, master," she said. He chuckled again.

"I have faith in you. As always." The comm went silent.

Twenty-four hours into their trip, Rannawann rumbled into his microphone. He wanted to know more about their enemy. Lanee waited to give him an answer, wanting to find the right one. For a Wookie, she desired to be direct and concise. But for the delicacy of what she sensed she was about to find, she needed to be intelligent.

"The Dark Side's most twisted potential," was the answer at which she arrived. He gave a semi-disgruntled reply, but seemed to accept it nonetheless.

"It is nothing we have not faced before, Rannawann. I am certain," Ujiri reassured his partner. Lanee wasn't so sure herself.

 **WHEN HE ACTIVATED** the Rage Seed, Veshiram felt a satisfying click, like a block sliding into its matching hole. It just felt right. Veshiram truly believed he was merely returning things to their true nature.

" _Rage is not a sentient idea, as the Jedi would have us believe. Far from it. We cannot ever truly part from it. It is basic to our nature. Think of the crucible all existence was forged in. That white hot density. The fury of a star, or of a planet's core. All matter is the same, all of it connected. When we dive into our anger, we are but taking within us and harnessing a primal energy – the energy of the universe itself. It is not a destructive thing, but instead, it is the very essence of creation. We allow ourselves to become builders. Artists. The shapers of our own destiny. And rage...it is our ally."_

He had taught that lesson to Ven. It seemed quite long ago now, even though it was only some small number of years. He didn't need to teach it to Taylor. Nor any of his other Seed-bearers. It was built-in, and he marveled at the efficiency. Lessons it would take one an entire lifetime to learn, baked into a brain within seconds. Now if only Veshiram could have a body capable that was equally efficient. Soon, he told himself. Soon.

In the meanwhile, Taylor was proving himself to be quite the asset. It effectively allowed Veshiram to double his search efforts, and already he found fruit. More than thirteen would be necessary for the coming war. These Sensitives, however, were different from the original thirteen, as they were never to be bound for the Jedi and their Temple. These would mature with him, though he did elect to search for the vulnerable two. Outer Rim patrol, he knew, just as the girl was. Veshiram liked to think of her. She had pleasing aesthetics. He wanted to kill her. The remaining ten, however, would have to be freed forcibly. And that was acceptable – Veshiram had been meaning to pay the Temple a visit.

 **RYKER HAD A** choice to make. It was evident as soon as he received Lanee's transmission. At first, he considered drowning it out, like crumpling a note in his fist that she might have passed him in school. But he saw opportunity. Veshiram was a threat. Her allusions to something greater standing beyond Veshiram left him grinding his teeth. He had worked so hard to develop this network. Ryker could not stand to watch this power he had so smoothly garnered for himself washed away. The notion that Veshiram was responsible for any structure at all this current flock of Sith had established was wounding, because Ryker interpreted it to mean Veshiram didn't perceive him as a problem. Like he let Ryker have it all.

And after seeing the tenacity of Veshiram first-hand, Ryker knew he was in danger.

It was the most rational plan to work with Lanee in some capacity to take Veshiram down. That was what Ryker wanted to be – purely rational. Invasive thoughts that he might be doing this for any other reason frustrated him. Mentally, he expected himself to be so sure, so sleek at all times. But Lanee was a fissure he was always skipping over. Killing her was the only real way to rid himself of attachments, were there any left. But that wasn't possible for now. It was even contrary to the interests of his Sith. He hated everything about the situation.

There was perhaps one cruiser from Revan's failed empire left, and it had been hidden under the sands of Korriban. The Academy, or rather, those who lived through the insurrection, had boarded it at Ryker's behest and set off into spaces unknown. He said Korriban was no longer safe, but that was only a partial truth. The whole was that Ryker knew the Sith had to undergo a metamorphosis. They could not so openly carry out their practice. It must be secreted for now. Ryker had to admit that Veshiram had the better tools. Taking raw Force users and blasting them into perfect Sith overnight was what he needed. Some of his followers were not strong enough to survive, and natural selection would be taking place in short order. Those closest to him, such as Xander, had prepared an ultimatum under Ryker's oversight to send forth to the remaining Lords: Adhere to Ryker's rule, or face excommunication, and death. Those who had sat at the table that curried Ven's favor were weak and would take a knee before him to retain what little power they could scrounge up for themselves; Dominus, however, would likely challenge Ryker.

Ryker was thoroughly comfortable in his ability not only to best Lord Dominus in combat, but also in the strength of his army over the opponent's. Dominus had lost popularity to Ryker simply because the man wasn't charismatic. He was strong and silent in a time when that kind of Sith was almost worthless. Ryker's rhetoric was simply too powerful. When they clashed, if at all, it would be a simple affair. But foremost...

If Lanee and Ryker could forge an alliance and destroy Veshiram, then he could find the space to consolidate. A new academy would have to be established, and new pupils would come to his allure. He would make the Dark Side attractive in ways it had never been, and the Jedi would look weak for leaning on him for support in the upcoming battle. This was how he would win the war of recruitment. The Jedi were rigid, old, and unpopular. The public would not trust them so soon after their perceived civil war tore the galaxy to shreds. Ryker imagined politicians sympathetic to him in the Senate, even one day himself delivering a speech. And most glorious of all: Reclaiming the lost title of Darth. It was exhilarating. Things were ripe for change. Just a few scattered fragments of the past remained in his way.

He returned her plea with an affirmative.

 **THE CRASHING WAVE** hung in orbit, inert. The ship was dark, and the trio of fighters slowed their approach to get a better look. Their search lights hovered over the cruiser's surface, and Ujiri noted the deployed and aimed turbo lasers on its planetary flank. Lanee, nor her companions, could say it was anything other than ominous.

"I have bad feeling about this," she muttered to herself.

Because the hangar was locked, they docked in sequence with each other to the exterior portals, and the resounding slamming of metal echoing throughout the ship. The noise elevated Lanee's heartbeat, but there was no way around it. It was impossible to dock quietly. Whoever, or whatever, was aboard the ship was going to know of their insertion, one way or another.

"We're going to emerge in separate bays," Lanee issued as a final warning. "It's unfortunate but we'll make do. Our first priority is to reconvene. We cannot split up until we know what we're dealing with exactly."

"Agreed," Ujiri grunted. "Let's make haste." Rannawann roared his affirmation.

Lanee and the Wookie were docked at the bow near the bridge. However, the third exterior dock was on the ship's undercarriage, meaning Ujiri would be levels away from their initial location and only accessible by the turbolift. It was a dangerous proposition, to say the least, and when Lanee saw the flickering lights over ahead, she knew. The strobing white and black flashed a subliminal message to her that this was a graveyard.

Calmly, she walked to Rannawann's dock, lightsaber switched off but in hand. As she did, the commpiece in her ear hissed to life.

"Lanee, there's another vessel docked down here," Ujiri said, keeping his voice low. "But it's...strange. It looked as though it were made from stone. And it's attached like an insect, legs wrapped around the docking point. I've never seen anything like it."

The description made Lanee's blood run cold. "How many passengers do you estimate it could hold?"

"Six to eight," he replied.

"There's only one that's alive," she said, though she felt as if it were a lie. "Be mindful of droids. Head directly for the turbolift, and do not stop moving. Rannawann and I will meet you on the bridge floor."

"Copy that," Ujiri said. Then it was quiet.

Rannawann ducked out of the door from his bay, and nodded once to Lanee, who returned the gesture. She noticed he preferred a saberstaff, and that it too was in his fury grip. Lanee had never seen a Wookie in combat, let alone one with Jedi training, though just from the stories she had heard on the Rim, it was likely something an enemy would never want to experience. That was some small comfort, she thought.

Rannawann growled softly to indicate his discomfort.

"I know," Lanee replied. "I sense it too."

The turbolift was down the glossy main corridor. It offered their reflection as they strode across, angled towards the heavy metal door. Lanee hovered before it, looking up above, and seeing that the lift was currently on the bridge level. She and Rannawann exchanged looks, then tensed themselves in preparation as Lanee called the lift down to their floor. A stressful moment followed. Lanee strained to sense anything, but there wasn't a hitch in the Force. It was a still pond, and somehow that was all the more disconcerting.

When the lift arrived, Lanee felt a compulsive tightening in her grip around her saber hilt. She feared nothing, but her battle senses were alight involuntarily. Her heart was in control, and it knew far better than she did. It seemed to take an age for the door to open. And when it did, a Republic crew-mate slumped out and on to the floor before them, dead.

Rannawann ignited his green saber, and roared defensively. He peered into the lift, but it appeared as though the dead man had been its only occupant. Lanee reached for her comm and contacted Ujiri.

"We just accessed the lift. We found one casualty. Please be careful," she said.

"...Just one, huh?" Ujiri asked solemnly. Lanee curved her yes into a question. "You should see what I see down here. There must be a hundred bodies."

An icy wedge drove down sharply into Lanee's gut. Rannawann gusted frustrated air from his massive nostrils. "We have to get to the bridge," Lanee repeated. "We're coming down to your floor to meet you."

"Get here fast," Ujri said through gritted teeth.

 **THE PEACEFUL GLOW** of the Temple just before the sun set on Coruscant was Zemner's favorite aspect of life there. The Padawans concluded their training, scrambling eagerly to the dining hall for their meal. A soft murmur of conversation fell across the halls. It seemed that, then, everyone was most together. The Temple was unified at the end of the day. It felt like a family gathering.

For many years now, he had experienced this wonderful section of the day. Indeed, he found himself looking forward to it on those days when his workload was particularly stressful or boring. Zemner was a Jedi that was honest with himself, and in that way he knew he was never quite capable of being the busy worker his peers strove to become. He was not efficient, nor terribly productive. He considered himself a simple man who flowed with his surroundings, tuning in to them to a greater degree than those who were more task-oriented.

This was how Zemner knew something was amiss.

A lanky shadow had slunk into the Temple, and he had every intention of finding it. To keep the peace, he strolled about calmly, his trademark smile etched across his weathered face. The dining hall was filled with chattering children munching happily, and Zemner wanted to keep it that way. His eternal smile was a bright beacon. Whatever had infiltrated these halls was very good at remaining undetected. He had almost failed to notice it at first; it was a tiny wrinkle in the Force, barely perceptible, and yet...it could be that it was leading him onward. Like it had wanted Zemner to be the one that found it.

And in a secluded alcove, where scholars might sit in the easy sun with an old text or holocron, he found it. Now that place was dark and draped in shadow, though he could still hear the distant sound of the dining hall. Master Zemner calmly approached, allowing his footsteps to be heard in the echoing grandeur of the Temple's corridors. He came to a stop near a plush chair.

"Master Zemner," the figure said, without turning. He could only make out the silhouette of a head. Zemner did not recognize the voice.

"What troubles you, friend?" he asked politely.

"My master has sent me on an errand. You have something of ours."

"I don't doubt we have something you _want_ , though whether or not it belongs to you is another matter."

"He has claimed those hearts, you know. They are his."

"They are not," Master Zemner answered with gentle strength. The air changed. He peeled back his robe to free his lightsaber on the belt. The figure rose slowly, taking its time. Then he stepped out into the light from the dining hall and glowered at Zemner from beneath his black hood, twin yellow eyes gleaming.

"We beg to differ."

"We?" Zemner asked.

Ten more dropped from the ceiling, and their red blades slithered out into the dark.

"You must be Taylor," said the calm old man. "A pleasure to meet you."

 **RANNAWANN LET LOOSE** a small roar when his friend entered the lift. He seemed relieved; Lanee didn't take the time to step out and try to find what had upset him so much. Something was aboard the ship, and it was a killing machine. There was great danger in lingering.

Never had she been so wary. The Force shimmered with an odd pattern as the lift swiftly climbed to the bridge floor. Lanee closed her eyes, feeling the ship, and all that returned was the stench of death. Yet, there was motion where there could not be. A distant scream from the past reached her perception, and she opened her eyes in horror, having seen a glimpse. Metal and flesh and bone, crawling, sprinting, gnashing. Cold prickles on her skin percolated. Her jaw felt heavy, as though she might be sick.

"Lanee? What's wrong?" Ujiri asked with nervous speed. The lift slammed to a rather abrupt halt. All eyes turned to the door, and it opened to a dim hallway. A tremendous gash in the ceiling was visible, and the guts of electronics sparked in calamitous destruction. Something like giant claws had rent open the metal on either wall here and there. The floor was a pool of blood and viscera.

Rannawann made a strange, low hum, rough and staccato. His lips trembled and his nostrils flared; his pupils dilated buy his eyes widened.

"I'm fine," Lanee said, straightening. "What's wrong with him?"

"He says..." Ujiri translated. "That he is all of a sudden home. In the Shadowlands of the forest floor."

Lanee twisted her mouth and looked back down the hall. The bridge was dark, but tiny dots of light from the instruments and navigation computers twinkled. Carefully, they picked their way through the carnage. Soon, they were surrounded by the dark. Rannawann would not stop sniffing the blood. It seemed old primal instincts were pushing the boundaries of his Jedi training.

"Where's the light?" Lanee whispered. She did not receive a response.

Instead, an inhuman wail wafted down the corridor behind them. The bridge was shaped like a "U" – one path led to the turbolift, the other, deeper into the ship, towards the escape pods. It was from there that the noise originated. Rannawann blasted a roar to challenge it.

"What is he doing?!" Lanee cried.

"There are creatures on his home planet that have developed the ability to sound like an injured Wookie in need of help," Ujiri explained. "They are predators, lying in ambush. He is saying...he will not be had so easily."

"Rannawann, calm yourself! Find your peace!" Lanee shouted. Her command was desperate.

"He will not stop. He fears this is life or death."

The Wookie charged forth, lightsaber extended. His great footsteps thundered through the ship, and his battle cry was fierce. He rounded a distant corner. Lanee and Ujiri sprinted after him, but there was no trace after turning that same bend.

"Where..." Lanee breathed. A roar further off had them running again.

Rannawann was fighting, twirling his blade, and only in its green glow could she see the enemy. Silvery metal tentacles, slashing and driving him back against a wall. There was a ferocity in his strikes that would have been unbearable for any human opponent, but the plasma didn't seem to have much of an effect on the machinery. He swung, roaring in righteous fury, but the blow was battered away. Then, rearing back, the long arms lunged forward, pinning the Wookie against a wall. His saber fell to the ground. He struggled, biting and pounding at his assailant, but when the full body of the monstrosity surged forth to engulf him, there was no more sound. It rippled and pulsated, seemingly absorbing Rannawann. Some number of tentacles on the side parted, and Lanee saw who stood at the center of the cloud of metal.

"Run," Ujiri commanded tersely. "We cannot fight it here."

It took Lanee a moment to relocate her legs, but when she did, so tore away after Ujiri. He was right; the narrow spaces here only favored the cephalopodic entity. They needed to retreat to their ships and blow the Crashing Wave from orbit.

"Come on," he said anxiously. "Come on..."

The tentacles rounded the corner, staring them down within the turbolift at the end of the hall. The door shut just in time.

"Rannawann..." Ujiri said, rubbing his temples.

"He was brave," Lanee consoled. Her own heart was loud.

"He was foolish," the Jedi lamented. "But we will not make such a mistake." He looked at Lanee. "What struck so much fear into you for that brief moment? I couldn't help but sense it."

Lanee shook her head. "It only looked like someone I once knew."

Somethings just weren't meant to be, however.

"Stay with me. Take Rannawann's ship; it's on my level," Lanee said. He agreed, and they stopped on that floor, then dropped into dead sprints towards their bays. Lanee arrived just in time to see her ship disengage it's locks and tumble away into space, towards the planet below. She swore under her breath and ran back to the hall, where Ujiri emerged to confirm that his ship had met a similar fate.

"To the hangars, then. We'll override the hangar locks and use fighters," Lanee suggested.

"As good a plan as any." There was a loud rumbling in the vents above them, and the pair of Jedi exchanged looks. Then they ran.

Thankfully, there were some number of Republic fighters around the hangar. The blast doors at the bottom, where they would have dropped out into space, were closed tightly. Lanne was immediately concerned that the ship's power fluctuations meant that the stasis shield that normally kept the vacuum of space at bay when the blast doors _did_ open was not working. If that were the case…

A crashing in the ceiling. Ujiri ignited his purple blade.

"There is no Death..." he recited. The monster burst from the ceiling with a metallic screech.

Fighting it was like fighting many opponents at once. Lanee realized quickly that space was at a premium in this duel, and as much of it as she could get, she would take. It felt very hard to do damage, however, not only because of the staunch material from which the thing was made, but because of the speed at which is adjusted to her attacks. Lanee was an exceptional duelist – against other lightsaber wielding opponents. This was a new challenge.

She and Ujiri synchronized their attacks to come from both directions simultaneously, trying to split up the thing's attention. That proved much harder in practice. Lanee estimated there were something like forty total tentacles, each the girth of a muscular human bicep. But the way they moved indicated they were attached at a small point of origination; one that swayed and moved with their momentum. A sickening realization occurred to her that they were sprouting from the back of a human host.

When Ujiri fell, the tentacles engulfed him, much the same way as Rannawann. There was a muffled cry of agony, but the absorption was too fast. The tentacles receded from the bloody spot on the floor where Ujiri had once been. Lanee snarled. This had gone too far. The tentacles then turned to face her, cleaning the blood off of one another like a pack of Kath hounds from back home might. Lapping tongues.

"Why don't we finish this the proper way?" she said, switching off her saber. The tentacles swayed, seemingly confused. She had to make an appeal to what was behind them if she wanted to live. "I know you're in there." Something did seem to change.

The tentacles no longer propelled across the floor. Instead, they hovered forward, as the legs of their true body walked towards Lanee. Their mouth-like ends stopped just before her face, gently brushing her teeth. She felt a cold jet of air from their intake; it was tasting her. Lanee held her ground. And then, somewhere past that forest of machinery, she heard the sound she was waiting for: A lightsaber ignition.

A jumbled mess of synthesized words spilled forth. Lanee had an inkling as to what language that was.

"I might not speak _that_ language, demon," she remarked, extending her own brilliant blue blade. "But I do speak this one." More garbled mess from the beast. Lanee looked over her stance, shoulder tilted towards the creature and her blade at angle towards the floor. "You once said this was an ancient style, didn't you? An ancient style for an ancient machine." The tentacles whirled and parted like a waterfall, revealing the human core bearing the weight of it all. Lanee could almost see the computer algorithms hard at work as they processed a response.

What came up was something of a smile on Ven's face.

 **TO BE CONCLUDED...**


	5. Finale

**FINALE**

 **IN THE FIRST** days, the nascent Jedi order was unified. Strife came as a result of disagreement as to the role the Force should play in the life of its user. Those who would face exile and later become the Sith believed the Force was a means to an end, and that its use as a weapon by which to arrest greater power for themselves was a right inherent at birth. They believed themselves to be greater beings than those who did not hear the Force as they did. Those who followed the Light believed the Force was a responsibility, and a tool that could improve life not only for Jedi, but for the galaxy as a whole.

This sparked war.

For thousands of years, the Jedi and the Sith have fought the same battle. Were the Sith to win, their rule would be cold and cruel. They would claim the bounties of the universe all for their own, and none could resist their tyranny. For the Dark Side's true nature is consumption, and as sure as the light of the sun would be eaten by the blackness of an eclipse, so too would the fragile hopes of the powerless sentients who rely upon the Jedi to be their vanguard. Although…

Powerful as it may be, the Dark Side's ravenous hunger has been the downfall of many Sith. Their lust for strength and prestige has beget a culture of betrayal that has seen many who would influence history dispatched at more ambitious hands. This is no secret to the Jedi, and they have taken advantage of it for as long as they have waged this war. But if things were ever to change, all Jedi stand wary of a unified Sith, for it would be an evil unleashed the likes of which no one could escape unscathed.

" _ **DO YOU KNOW**_ _what our strongest weapon is?" Veshiram asked of his apprentice. Taylor rose his head to answer his master._

" _No, my lord," Taylor replied._

" _Fear," Veshiram said with cold simplicity. "It is everything, and once in the hearts of our enemies, it is nothing. Fear obliterates the self, like shattered glass falling to the ground. They lose themselves in its chill. And we reap the rewards."_

" _I will try to remember that, master."_

" _I know you will. I made you perfectly." Then the Sith Lord sighed. He quite tired as of late. It had been a trying past few days, and yet the real work seemed to be just up ahead. Jedi didn't scare so easily, but he would need them to if he was to gain access to his waiting children. Something big had to be done to draw them away from their precious Padawans. Something bold._

" _Taylor, gather your brothers," Veshiram commanded. "We're going to put your lesson into practice."_

 **IT HAD BEEN** quite some time since Zemner had found need to draw his blade.

It was a simple, compact hilt of silvery polish with a black rubberized grip woven across. He liked the way the small thing fit in his hand, yet generated such great power. The plasma spouted a brilliant orange hue from his crystal, a distinct flourish he allowed himself. The rare color was not to make him feel special or distinguished, but rather to remember where he came from. It had been a gift from his master, a man he respected greatly.

And in Zemner's hands, the lightsaber was worked to perfection.

Lanee did not become the premier duelist of the Jedi without an exceptional teacher. Other Jedi had attempted Zemner to adopt a more modern style, as opposed to his favored Makashi. The days of lightsaber combat are over, they claimed. Surely Niman or Soresu were better choices in this quieter age.

But as Zemner twisted his blade and slid his feet, it became apparent to the Jedi that had rushed to his aid at the sound of commotion in the hall that he knew exactly what he was doing. Taylor's slashes were fast and chained into deadly combinations of blows, but the reserved defense of the senior Jedi efficiently deflected harm. It was Zemner's intent to win the duel through economy of movement, accruing an advantage through efficiency. He sensed a great thrumming stone of hatred in Taylor's chest, and from that epicenter stemmed his power. It was an odd thing, even for a spell of the Dark Side, but not something Zemner was unprepared to deal with. It made the young man strong, and even seemed to grant him some measure of expertise, but his wild and formless style of combat was surely disadvantaged against someone of so many hours' practice as Zemner.

"You're pretty nimble for a corpse," Taylor said as their blades locked close, face-to-face.

"I don't suppose we could come to a mutual understanding," Zemner chimed sweetly. "I would be loathe to hurt my favorite apprentice's companion." Taylor smirked in response, then broke the stalemate and leapt backwards, sizing up his opponent once more.

"Let me free you from those bindings," Zemner shouted across the room. "I can tell you don't truly want to be that way."

Taylor responded with an acrobatic attack, vaulting high through the air and landing behind Zemner. His horizontal saber sweep met empty air as Zemner ducked. He flashed a smile at Taylor before disappearing into a shimmering stealth field.

"Have you seen this one before?" Zemner taunted from invisibility. Taylor frowned and rested his blade, swiveling his head in an attempt to track the old man. "The Force is capable of many things, you know. But your master's 'training' is limited."

"What would you know about my power?" Taylor called out into the void.

"We have only sparred for a few minutes, and yet I believe I've begun to see its end," Zemner said from another part of the room. The Jedi, with their withdrawn sabers, had stood back at his behest, allowing he and Taylor space to fight alone. Taylor's Sith did the same. "Veshiram would never allow you to be stronger than he is. That would be very un-Sith-like, wouldn't it?"

"Veshiram showed me the truth that I was neglecting," Taylor replied. "I'd always thought the life of a Jedi was sacrifice. I didn't know I could have it all."

"That's just the Rage Seed speaking, not you," Zemner said. Suddenly he drew very near Taylor, and tickled his ear with his words. "That's its name, isn't it?"

"Get out of my head!" Taylor roared, slashing at the source of the sound. No connection was made, but instantly a swift shot to his gut left him reeling in pain. Zemner uncloaked, having jammed a palm strike sharply above Taylor's navel. Seizing the opportunity, Zemner darted forward and disarmed Taylor, stealing away his lightsaber and pinning his arm against his back in a strong hold. Taylor grunted and struggled on the floor, but it was of no use.

"There's a lot of irony in wanting _me_ out of there," Zemner chuckled. "When I'm the one trying to help."

Taylor experienced excruciating agony as Zemner rooted within his spirit, seeking to sever the anchors by which the Rage Seed was attached. Through the blood-red veil of pain, though, Taylor found his breath. Images began to flicker in his mind's eye, and there was a palpable sense of tranquility that tried to push its way through. Home. Duststorm. Dreams of becoming a Jedi, of helping, of feeling good about himself. Shayira. And his best friend.

"Lanee..." Taylor gasped. He realized he was trying to help the old man.

"Yes," Zemner crooned, concentrating hard. "Focus on her."

"Enough of this," echoed an icy voice. Zemner was blasted aside by an immense jet of the Force. He slammed into a pillar, and the Knights rushed forth in a protective ring around them. He assured them he was fine, rising slowly. He was bruised, but nothing was broken.

"I almost did it!" Zemner yelled happily. "I think I'll get there next time."

Veshiram strode coolly out of the darkness. His hood was pulled low over his face, obscuring all but the lower half. And on that half, he wore his trademark grin. He opened it to speak.

"We'll see about that."

 **THE PAIR OF** old friends regarded each other with silent acknowledgement. The rain was coming down in grey sheets from the Coruscant sky, blasting the polished marble of the Temple steps, but Lanee and Ryker stood resolute, holding each other's gaze. He remembered the stern sharpness of her jawline when she was angry, and she remembered the playful ember eternally smoldering in his eyes. But what was most important was that Ryker had heard Lanee's call, and he had answered it. It would have been so easy to ignore, to let her writhe in her hour of need. But, for whatever reason, he hadn't. It was probably a selfish one, and there was much for Ryker to gain, but there he stood regardless. And Lanee was glad. She fidgeted with the homing beacon in her satchel, her fingers brushing against it once more just to make sure it was there. It was her only trump card.

"It seems your message could not have been better timed," Ryker commented dryly.

"So it seems," Lanee agreed. She hadn't been anticipating a true attack on the Temple, but it didn't surprise her that Veshiram had the gall.

"The manipulator is inside as we stand here, drenched. I can smell his stench," said Ryker. "Your charge, the smuggler; he's here too, commanding the battle while his master sneaks."

"Rage Seeds," Lanee breathed. Suddenly it all made sense.

"Yes," Ryker affirmed. "Buried in the hearts amongst your Padawans and Knights. Should he be allowed to activate them..."

"His power will grow twice over," Lanee finished.

"And that is something neither of us can allow," he replied. Lanee nodded.

"How many are in your fold?" Lanee asked.

"Forty-seven," he answered. "All capable Sith. They will do as I command. But the Rage Seed grants...unnatural powers. They will not be enough in battle."

"We just need to get Veshiram to stand down," Lanee stated firmly. "We need every one in this Temple to stop Ven."

Ryker seemed to wince at the name. "And your sure it is my master?" he asked cautiously.

"There is no doubt. I have seen for myself," Lanee returned. "But he isn't what he once was. This is no man we are dealing with – it's an engine of destruction."

Ryker turned his head upwards into the rain and smirked. "I can't believe it, but it seems as though he got what he always wanted."

"There is nothing of his mind left," Lanee corrected quietly. "He is controlled entirely by the Ascent. Your master died when you killed him."

Ryker lowered his head to meet Lanee's eye once more. "Good."

 **THOUGH HE WAS** a man of peace, Zemner found himself eagerly anticipating his duel with Veshiram. It took a special kind of heart to both see and adore the artfulness of combat without straying too near the Dark Side, but Zemner possessed one. Always, he had been fascinated by the dance. It was intellectually and physically stimulating in a way that few other pursuits were. And there never seemed to be a time in a Jedi's life when it wasn't useful.

So when he sensed the arrival of Lanee and another, darker entity outside on the Temple steps, Zemner was somewhat disappointed.

"Forgive me, Veshiram, but it would seem that we have a more pressing matter to attend to first," Master Zemner said.

"Somehow, I agree with you," Veshiram said, turning his head to the main entrance. The massive, heavy doors parted, ushering in the blasting sound of the rainstorm outside. Two figures stood there, drenched in water and weighed down with intent. Lanee and Ryker strode into the ancient halls of the Jedi together, and were met with a confused reception.

"Lanee," Zemner greeted. "And you brought a dinner guest." Ryker blinked.

"Master," Lanee said, with just a touch of weariness.

"I sense you have a tale to tell," he said solemnly. Another Jedi stepped forward. He was a muscular Iridonian named Kale, and addressed Lanee sternly.

"You departed here with two others. Rannawann and Ujiri. Where are they?"

Lanee bowed her head, scowling at the ground. Kale understood the meaning, and stepped back to his brethren. She could sense his anger and sorrow.

"What happened out there?" Zemner asked, placing a hand on her shoulder. Lanee looked up at him with watery eyes.

"Something horrible approaches. And there is very little time."

 _ **SHE WAS SCARED.**_ _The Code seemed so distant from her that it was pointless to call upon it. The only thing solid she could find was within herself, and that was the desire to live. But as Ven marched toward her, his saber flashing so quickly that it deceived her eyes, Lanee knew that she was completely outmatched. The sound of her own breath and the pounding of her heart filled her ears exclusively._

 _Her skill didn't matter here; this was a complete mismatch physically. Ven's new body was nothing short of perfection, engineered to kill – and to do it with efficiency. He took longer strides, he jumped higher, he swung and blocked faster. There was a distinct pull of dread within Lanee that the only thing keeping her alive was the fact that he was enjoying toying with her so much._

 _Lanee summoned the Force and hurled plasteel containers and wayward tools at Ven, but the reaction time of his metal appendages was just too much. They battered away her projectiles with ease. Ven marched toward her with deliberate slowness, and she was just trying to create space, but there was a dwindling amount of that left in the hangar._

 _There was one possibility. The blast doors on the floor, if opened, would suck everything out into the vacuum, for the shield was disabled. There was an emergency hand release for those doors; Lanee had spotted it during her battle. Her life would surely end, but that sacrifice might not be in vain, for any price was worth sparing the galaxy from this creature._

 _The young Jedi took a steadying breath. Ideally, she could place Ven directly atop the doors. She had to have perfect timing. Ven's tendrils crunched the metal floor beneath their grasp, pulling it up like a cat on a rug, and with just as much pleasure. Lanee circled him, her lightsaber out forward in a warding capacity. How much intelligence was left within him? Or had it all been replaced with animal impulse? It was impossible to tell; he read like an enigma within the Force, a storm of different shapes and colors of emotion and intent. With a quiet prayer, she enacted her plan._

" _Return to hell," she whispered, and pulled the lever._

 _What she would remember most was the horrible scream of the initial air being sucked out of the hangar. Ven's lightning reactions managed to plant his robotic arms firmly across the breadth of the doors, but it was far too wide to reach both sides once the doors had opened entirely. Thus an agonizingly slow sequence began: Ven fought agains the massive pressure of the vacuum attempting to tear him out into space, crawling with every inch of his might towards Lanee, who managed to cling to support scaffolding. She could only watch in terror has he made his approach, hoping against hope that the doors would open faster and Ven would succumb. When the starfighter above her was ripped loose and plummeted downward, Lanee narrowly dodged the hulk of metal. It screeched across the floor, ripping it to shreds. Ven battered it away as though it were paper, and proceeded his slow trudge, a wicked grin across his face. It became apparent that more would be needed to topple him._

 _And so, relinquishing any and all fear, she focused on that image of the sun warming her skin, and heard her master's words of wisdom fall upon her ears once more. She gave up her body, and believed only in the living Force._

 _Lanee let go._

 _She somersaulted through the air and planted the bottom of her boots squarely on Ven's chest. Any lesser man's ribs would have cracked, but Ven was only knocked backwards. The tactic, however, achieved it's goal; Ven lost his footing and tumbled with the debris._

 _Relief flooded her body in a massive rush of endorphins. She was going to die, yes. She knew it. But she had won._

 _Making peace with that fact seemed to slow time. When she opened her eyes from her dreamy, smiling trance, she saw it. Another starfighter had been ripped from the wall and was hurtling towards her. Lanee had zero momentum on her side, and averting the gaping door's inevitable portal to death seemed unlikely. But the plasteel crates – those she could use. The Force tore through her body to a degree she had never experienced. It ripped a passing container towards her, and from that she could jump. The lunge was just far enough; she grasped the fighter's narrow forward-facing wing and clambered up to the cockpit, smashing the release. She was in. And as the fighter tipped over the edge towards the black pit of stars below, the cockpit just managed to seal._

 _She couldn't believe it, but the debris splattering against her floating ship brought her senses back. Lanee engaged the thrusters and left the unknown world for good._

" **I HARDLY BELIEVE** your tale, girl," Veshiram said with curt boredom, picking at a nail. "My former apprentice was quite dead. Your former friend saw to that himself."

"If you think the Ascent turns a cripple into a god, what the hell do you think it does to a corpse?!" Lanee shouted.

Veshiram didn't show even so much as a hint of amusement. Merely a concerned frown that seemed to pull his face down to the floor. It was rather unlike him, but he felt the prickles of anxiety. Her sincerity was evident; there was no ploy here. This was not as planned.

"And it devoured your two Jedi Knights with ease," Ryker continued.

"Yes," Lanee said hoarsely. "There isn't one among us, Jedi nor Sith, who can stop it."

"You claim it comes here, but also that the beast was subjected to space unprotected," Veshiram said cautiously.

Lanee then produced the tracking device from her satchel. "I pulled this off the under side of my ship as I left. Does this look like anything but Rakatan technology to you?" Veshiram adopted a full-blown scowl. Indeed, the tiny hedron with it's blinking red light could not be mistaken for anything different from the plethora of technologies they had all witnessed at the Ascent. "He survived. And he _is_ coming."

"If that is the case," Master Zemner spoke, "Then I propose a temporary alliance." Silence rang out like a bell.

"Tch, not likely," Ryker spat. "I am open to the idea; my Sith will serve. But the manipulator cannot be trusted."

"You seem so sure of my intentions," Veshiram mused. "As though I would be so misguided to assume my brood could best such a horror."

"Isn't that your hallmark? The hidden, throbbing pride you kindle?" rebutted Ryker.

"Isn't it yours?" Veshiram retorted.

Ryker grinned maliciously. "I don't hide mine, withered one."

"Master, if we cannot reach a compromise, these Sith will destroy themselves and us along with them long before Ven arrives," Lanee plead.

"No, Lanee, I do not think they will," Zemner replied calmly. His eyes seemed to be keeping a great storm at bay. It was a look Lanee almost felt uncomfortable seeing her serene master harboring.

"And you're so sure because…?" Veshiram queried.

"Why don't you drop the pretense?" Zemner suggested to the crippled Sith. "And tell us all why you're really here."

Veshiram shrugged in a lurching, grinding motion. "These Sith the young one leads do not deserve the title. They are weak. They have no fortitude. I sought to change that, but they were blinded by their own ineptitude."

"Yet you do not act of your own accord," Zemner continued. Veshiram cocked his head, squinting at the old Jedi. "I have seen what is beyond, waiting in your shadow. What called Revan away after the war. What we rebuild in the furtive hope of standing against. The true Sith. The real Empire."

Veshiram's face clicked. There was the smile.

"Elaborate, if you would," Ryker interjected. There was a note of nervous inquiry in his voice.

"It is as exactly as I have outlined. Only you, remants of the false Sith, the Revanites, have yet to see it," Veshiram explained. "In that way, Veshiram is right. You are quite inept."

"Do not look down your nose at me, old man," Ryker warned through gritted teeth. "I have restored us. Your order failed to wipe us out."

"Or, perhaps we've been attending to far more pressing matters," Zemner offered. The slight worked. Ryker's pride was wounded, and he became incensed.

"Watch that tone," Ryker said, igniting his blades. "Or I'll correct it for you."

Zemner's eyes scanned up and down the twin red lightsabers. "What comes from the dark corners of this galaxy is far beyond your Sith or my Knights. If you think you have a place in their Empire, you are mistaken. Veshiram's attempted coup is proof of that. My words pale in comparison to the indignities you will suffer at their hands. But if we sustain damage here today, to the immediate threat of your former master, then there will truly be no hope for any of us."

Ryker's eyes scanned the congregation of foes before him. After a moment, he switched off his weapons.

"Fine," he said. "But I still want to know why you think this unsightly grey thing will help us against Ven."

"Self-preservation," Zemner put simply.

"Well put," Veshiram acknowledged. "So be it. We will fight."

And so the Jedi Temple entered lockdown. Gates over the grand arches were lowered all across the building, and a quiet hush settled in over the blue shadows of night. At any other time, it would have been peaceful, but not with the restless anticipation. Though the Padawans - sequestered away from any danger and Veshiram's greedy glances - hadn't any idea what was going on, they too could sense the tremors of uneasiness. A detachment of Knights was formed to guard them in the dining hall, where they were to sleep for the night. The rest were positioned as sentries, watching and waiting.

All remaining Knights, including those from Outer Rim patrol, were urged to complete any immediate business and return home. Lanee watched Zemner broadcast the call.

"This will be the first time every member of our Order will have gathered in one place since its formation," Zemner remarked. There was a certain gravity to his statement that was not lost upon Lanee.

"If they day is lost, there will be no recovery," she said gravely.

"Indeed," her master affirmed. "And these Sith know that."

Lanee pursed her lips and bowed her head. "Master, I am sorry. I have failed the Order to have taken this so far. Had I been able to stop Ven on the Cresting Wave, none of this would be needed."

"Nonsense, child," Zemner chided warmly. "I have no doubt you did your best."

"You always put your faith in me, master, and yet..."

"Do not waver now, Lanee," he said. "Especially now. You can't. You simply can't."

"I will collect myself then, master," Lanee apologized, filling her lungs. The scattered strings of anxiety splintering across her arms and toros were not so easily banished, however.

The stakes were impossibly high – and the majority of the outcomes did not favor the Jedi. Perhaps they would all perish though, and the Force would be quieted. No, that couldn't be, for the Sith alluded to be master Zemner were still out there. Doubtless they would fill the void in time. If Veshiram and his ilk were to be the primary casuality, however, it would benefit the Jedi immediately by reducing the presence of this yet-to-come terror. But that would mean…

She shook her head to loosen the thoughts. She would keep her promise to Taylor.

Ryker's following could very well meet their end, and not necessarily to Ven. The whole ordeal was rife with a chance for Veshiram to turn upon his tentative allies. Even now, as each faction retreated to their own secluded corner for the night, his foul brood sat beneath their hobbled master's feet, drinking in his words. What directions Veshiram would deliver were entirely unknown. Lanee felt that Ryker's Sith would have to watch their backs even more than her brothers and sisters of the Order.

Of course, the Jedi themselves might be the ultimate sacrifice, and the pendulum would swing into dark shadow once more. She would do everything in her power to prevent that from happening. But as the only one who had seen the horror of the coming storm, Lanee could not help but feel profound uncertainty. With a sigh, she curled her knees up to her chest in a window sill and watched the rain patter across the glass.

 **RYKER'S SOLDIERS WERE** kept far away from the Jedi. It was for mutual safety, but the newly christened Sith Lord was the first to propose it. Some of his followers knew the Temple quite well, having once defected from the Jedi. His lieutenant Xander was one such Sith. Her usefulness to Ryker didn't seem to cease to expand each day.

"What is your priority, my Lord?" she asked, kneeling.

"I want to see him coming," Ryker answered. "We must have adequate forwarning. Lanee says the target is large, but able to move swiftly and quietly, even utilizing small spaces such as air ducts. We must cover these."

"Yes, my Lord. Any further instructions?"

"If any of our warriors spot this thing, implore them to not engage it. They must retreat, so that we might attack it together. This is the most important part."

"Right away," she confirmed, and swiftly darted off to dispatch the Sith. Ryker watched her go to the mass of dark robes and hoods. They had been tasked with securing the upper floor of the Temple, and in the dim corridor with the storm raging outside, they gathered. Ryker knew the Sith had many questions, but he had been thorough in eliminating those on Korriban who might have opposed him in this new endeavor. Not that he had expected his prophesized exodus to encompass teaming with the Jedi, of all things. The situation was uncomfortable, and that bred whispers.

But, as of yet, they had done as he commanded, for they believed the dire threat of Ven's reconstituted corpus. Perhaps even more than Ryker did himself.

Of course, there was a white lie in place. Ryker had told his following that their true goal was to raid the holocron library, and that had satisfied the loudest dissent. It was an extremtly covetable goal; many Sith throughout history had attempted heists on that very room, but none had been in such great number with such ease of access as they were now. It made their assistance to the Jedi too good to pass up.

All the while, their new leader struggled internally. Because deep down, he knew why they were there. It was for Lanee.

Ryker slammed his fist into the wall, and the thunder outside roared to match his anger.

 **THE JEDI COUNCIL** consisted of the wisest and strongest Masters. Zemner considered himself honored to be counted amongst them, but now he had to answer for his strange decision making. This alliance with the Sith was unprecedented in the history of the Order. Masters Arakond, Silon, Ta'Ree and Brezzle were his peers, distinguished Jedi all. He stood before them in the circular room atop the Temple's highest tower, and did so with a serene expression on his face.

"You have tremendous trust in your pupil," Master Ta'Ree began. She was a female Togruta with pale complexion, and the most likely member of the Council to mediate disagreements. "This could not have been an easy decision for you to come to."

"Quite contrary, Ta'Ree. It was the simplest decision in the world," Zemner replied with a beaming smile.

"To ally with the Sith?" asked the stalwart, and gruff, Kel Dor Master Arakond.

"Absolutely. They have much the same interest in defeating the coming enemy as we, and it allows us to keep them close, and thus in check. Such is my way of thinking."

"It allows them an opening to stab us in the back as well," Arakond cautioned.

"Of course. But we expect that, and can guard against it." Zemner shrugged beneath his closed-eye smile. "And truthfully, we don't have a choice."

Brezzle was the smallest in physical stature, being a mouse-like Chadra-Fan. But his squeaking endorsement of Zemner's plan was respected by all. Only Silon, a Chiss with piercing red eyes, witheld comment. He was the quietest and sternest of all the council members, and did not bother to hide his disdain for Zemner's free spirit. A total stalwart, but in Zemner's private assessment, a complete ass.

"If we do this," Silon said slowly. "We will not leave any inch of ourselves exposed. I draw a line here until adequate assurances are made."

"Of course!" Master Zemner brightly announced. "I have something of a plan, you see..."

Sometime later, he triumphtantly emerged from the Council Chamber's doors, and stopped dead in his tracks, surprised to see Veshiram leaning against the wall. "Bold!" Zemner chimed conversationally.

"Mmm," Veshiram agreed, not making eye contact. "I doubt a Sith Lord has been at this precipice in many years."

"Were you listening to our discussion?" Zemner asked. He was not concerned if Veshiram did; in fact, he was counting on it.

"Naturally," Veshiram declared. "As you put it, our common ground is our desire for self-preservation. I'm merely being pragmatic." Zemner nodded, smiling with his eyes.

"I'd expect nothing less. You know, I've been old for a long time now, and I'm lucky to be able to say that. But do you know when the _first_ time I ever felt my age was?" Veshiram gave a single shake of his head. "It was when we met that first time on Tersi Station."

"We were looking for him, weren't we?" Veshiram mused.

"Yes. And we fought over such tiny traces of his presence," Zemner said. "Be honest with me. Revan still eludes your Empire, doesn't he?"

Veshiram continued to stare at his feet, lost in melancholy thought. "The only one to ever resist my Seed. To twist it, use it even. I will find him," he said with finality.

"If we survive the day," Zemner reminded gently. "And if you beat us to him."

Veshiram locked eyes with the old Jedi. "It's why I need your students."

 **CORUSCANT PORT AUTHORITY** was a well-oiled machine comprised of tens of thousands of sentients working tirelessly to direct the ceaseless flow of space traffic on and off the planet. Often times, ships carrying contraband attempted to bypass the lanes and avoid potential search and seizure of their cargo. These ships were nearly always detected on the radars and reeled in by tractor beams to detainment bays. Unless, of course, they were outfitted with illegal sensor jammers like Duststorm.

Or were Rakatan infiltration units.

Ven's pod deftly swooped past the teeming array of freighters and personal vessels, falling like a graceful comet towards the planet surface. The obsidian sheen of the hull made it nearly invisible to the naked eye against the black background of space. Inside, he had contorted his apendages into a neat configuration for efficiency, and was running only the minimum operation systems. He found it was the best way he could achieve the quality of meditation he was accustomed to with his organic body.

When the proximity warning on the display screen indicated impact soon, his eyes flew open in its ghostly green flashes, and a rush of adrenaline surged through his tissues. It was time.

 **LANEE WENT UP** to the floor that Ryker had been given command of as part of her final sweep. There was a touch of uneasiness about her as she ascended the stairs cautiously, watching the black robes and piercing yellow eyes of the judgemental Sith loitering about. It disgusted her to see them leaning so casually against those sacred walls, whispering amongst themselves a place of peace. But she knew that they respected Ryker's orders and, for the most part, she was safe there. She did snap at one wayward Sith who was shirking his watch duty in a window. This prompted Ryker's swift approach.

"I cannot have you undermining me," Ryker hissed, pulling Lanee aside.

"Why? Aren't these 'your' Sith?" she mocked.

"They do not follow me for my good looks," he murmured with a shifting glance. "They follow me because I am competent. My second in command, the female, Xander – she is already shown her self to be quite capable. Someday she will turn on me for my position, and I'd rather not hasten that experience."

"I'm not so sure I want to be allied with such volatile forces," Lanee said with narrowed eyes.

"It's what we _do_ ," Ryker said.

"It's what _they_ do," Lanee retorted. "You are not one of them."

"Why is it so hard for you to believe I am truly a Sith? I've spent most of my life under one's tutelage. I have studied their ways, learned their Code, and slain in their name," seethed Ryker.

"Because you're here now, helping me," Lanee said with righteous ferocity. Ryker had no counter to that argument.

"Well, they don't know that," he said, glancing over his shoulder.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"In order to get them to accompany me here, I had to tell them we had a secondary goal. They think we'll be pillaging your holocron storage."

"You _what?"_ she yelped.

"Quiet," Ryker plead, cringing.

Something within her twinged. "How did we become this?" she asked, a more painful emotion creeping in. "It didn't have to be this way, Ryker. You could have come to the Temple with me, instead of being ripped apart by this darkness."

"No, I couldn't have." Now it was his turn to correct her. "I'm not like you. I never was."

Her shoulder's slumped and her eyes beseeched him for a better answer, but the solid pit in her stomach echoed the truth in his words.

"The Dark Side is a choice. It can be rejected," she plead. "I can help you. We can overcome this."

"Help me?" he asked, bemused. "I don't _want_ help. I _like_ who I am, what I've accomplished. You are a servant of the Force, and it limits what you can do. I command it, and my ceiling is higher."

"But it eats away at you," she said tenderly. There was an urge to reach out and touch his face that she had to quell. "I've seen what the corruption does...how it ends. The Dark Side takes just as much as it gives."

"From those weak enough, yes," Ryker replied. He was so sure of himself, she thought. "I am not that. I will rise above." He saw the sad glitter in her glance and a hot spike of rage surged in his limbs. "Don't you see?" he shouted. "Don't you see the pity, the contempt you have for me? You're still the same as always – bloated on your own ego, looking down on everyone around you. You think you're better than me. That's why you hate what I am – you realize I made a different choice than you. How _dare_ I, right?"

"No-" she began, but his tirade was unrelenting.

"How could anyone _ever_ think differently than you? You, the prodigal child, the righteous Jedi, who went gallivanting off into space to prove to the galaxy just how good you are," he spat.

"I left you behind," she said, tears welling. "And I always, _always_ regretted it."

"And now," he continued. "Your next pet project has fallen to the Dark Side as well. Some Jedi you are. You do more good for the Sith than for your own kind."

"I will free Taylor from Veshiram's control," she said with wavering breath, trying to muster her resolve. "That I swear to you."

"And what if he doesn't want it?" Ryker asked her sharply. "What if he has come to the same conclusion that I have?"

But something in Lanee's heart spoke a different answer.

"Taylor heard the call of the Force long before I ever did. It put the wind at his back and moved his feet." Now she felt the warmth returning to her hands as she wiped her eyes and sniffled. "It took him farther than even he realized. There was a part of him that knew he was destined to become a Jedi. His is not a dream so easily shattered."

"You sound confident in that assessment."

"I'm confident in _him_."

 **FAINT FRAGMENTS OF** awareness floated to the surface. Taylor had been asleep for a very long time – or at least the stiffness in his limbs and the fog in his brain suggested so. When the old Jedi had rooted around in his mind, prying away the Rage Seed, he felt the detachment as pain at first, but past that initial burn, there was something more. He had begun to feel just how much weight he was carrying. And like a lesion on his skin, once found he could not stop running his fingers over it. He felt it even when he wasn't trying. It became the fixation of his thoughts, and he began to strain internally.

Could he break it? Should he? It was an esoteric thing, like trying to break out of a bundle of sheets wrapped around him in the night, but from within his own dream. He feared the loss of his power were he to separate from the Rage Seed, but the nagging thought that it might be worth it to break from Veshiram's spell was omnipresent. Taylor could not shake the notion that this, despite how good the strength felt, was an unhealthy symbiosis, that the Seed was withering him in some capacity that wasn't immediately apparent. Though again, that might have just been the work of a conniving Jedi. He just didn't know.

Master Veshiram sensed his confusion. "Be not troubled," he soothed. "The answer is simple; just let it go. Let the darkness run its course, and deliver unto you its gifts. All shall be much clearer, but only if you don't struggle."

"Of course, master," Taylor nodded. "This is what I want." Veshiram breezed past him in his cloak to tend to other business. Taylor could tell that he was furious the Jedi would not let him near the latent Rage Seed bearers; somehow they had discovered his plan and sequestered the vulnerable Jedi from his clutches. But perhaps even more importantly was the upcoming battle the master seemed to sense with the approaching anomaly. For some reason, Veshiram most of all seemed to concern himself with its destruction. It would seem that he knew something even Lanee, who fought with the creature, did not.

Taylor caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window. He shook his head and walked onward, thinking for a brief second that his eyes had changed color. His irises had always been yellow, hadn't they?

Hadn't they?

 **HUMMING TO HIMSELF** , Master Zemner sat in the cool garden, listening to the sweet streams of water tumble down from the high fountains. Only a few days prior, he had sat on that very bench with Lanee, catching up on her first return to the Temple in years. It was always their favorite place; she loved to have lessons there as a child, and Zemner was happy to oblige. On days when he had nothing better to do, he liked to come down in the crisp early morning mists and tend to the plants in the soil himself and enjoy the waking songs of the birds that inhabited the place.

Only on this night, he realized that there were no birds roosting. They'd all left. He paused to consider a single feather, forgotten in haste by its owner, resting on the bench next to him. "Hmm!" he remarked, springing cheerfully to his feet. He switched from a hum to a sharp whistle.

That whistle continued as the Jedi walked from the gardens back into the halls of the Temple. It was meandering and aimless as a tune, but his stroll was the opposite. He had a fairly good inkling of where he was going. And so the song continued in the birds' stead. And when he came to a place that did not look any different from any other particular spot in those halls, Master Zemner stopped walking. On the final, high note, he stretched out his arm to point at the wall and ignited his lightsaber.

"Why don't we get started, then?" he asked loudly.

The wall ruptured, and Ven's tentacled carapace burst forth from the breach.

" **WHAT THE HELL** was that?" Ryker asked, leaping to his feet. Xander turned her head, a grave expression on her face. They both knew. His dark brood emerged from their shadows, shedding their obsidian robes in preparation for combat. They fell like snake skin, piling on the floor of a place that they never expected to be. Then the metal rattle of sabers jumping into their palms began. Ryker's face went blank, a calm settling over his body like fine mist. He swept from the hall, his horde in tow.

 **LANEE NODDED, SWINGING** her feet over the edge of the bed. This was somehow so familiar, and as she slid into her boots, she remembered. It was just like the night she left Dantooine for the Temple, waiting in bed, a hollow space in her chest where her friendship had been. Now she supposed it was time to make amends. For everything.

 **VESHIRAM'S COLD HAND** fell upon Taylor's shoulder, snapping him out of his trance. They exchanged a wordless look. Taylor stretched, rubbing warmth into his arms. The glazed eyes of Veshiram's other followers appeared then, ranked and filed, ready for command.

"You know what you must do," Veshiram cooed, brushing his long, knobby fingers across Taylor's cheek. "Go quickly; let them find me not."

"Yes master," Taylor said. He felt like his voice crossed a great distance just to get there. And as the hobbled Sith Lord crept from the hall to execute his plan, Taylor all of a sudden found himself wanting to be wherever that place was. And so he went.

 **IN HIS YOUNGER** days, Master Zemner would often whimsically drift between worlds, traversing the galaxy with an unquenchable desire to see and learn all it had to offer. He was a Jedi, then, but shirking his duties gave him no remorse, as those days the stars were peaceful and bereft of conflict. He sought enrichment of the spirit, and only through his wandering, aimless pilgrimage would he be satisfied. The charitable acts of kindness and his advocacy for impartial justice that trailed him did a wealth of good, regardless of whether or not the Council had ordered it.

There was one world that impacted him particularly strongly, perhaps the most of all. Glee Anselm, the watery Mid Rim home of the amphibious Nautolan. He had met their kind within the Order, and their massive, glittering black eyes had sparked his interest. Zemner vacationed there, and by chance met a Nautolan Jedi Master. He did not scold the young Knight for his lack of focus. Instead, he taught him a lesson that Zemner would hold dearly in his heart for the rest of his days.

"The Force is much like water," said the wise Nautolan, spreading his arms wide before the calm, azure expanse of ocean before them. "It has no shape except for the one we give it with our will. Water flows until it meets resistance, and like water, if we let the Force be free, let it fill us, then it takes our shape." He looked at Zemner, who was soaking in his every word. "And then, like a wave, we can let it crash."

And crash he did.

Effortlessly switching between defense and offense, Master Zemner showed the Sith named Ven what it meant to be a master duelist. His lightsaber spun and twirled, repelling the strikes of the tentacles. To any onlooker, no matter the skill level it would look as though he was always several moves ahead; despite the random rapidity of Ven's blows, Zemner was somehow able to keep up. This was the strength of his form – the minimum necessary movement allowed for efficiency of guard that left extracted much value from the engagement. Against any normal opponent, this would be a long game that saw him or her drained and weakened by its end, whereas the master would be fresh as ever. This machine, however, was not a typical adversary. His reserves of energy were deep and vast. Zemner could sense their glow beneath the surface as they fought.

A tentacle whirled past his head, narrowly missing. It ripped a massive chunk of stone from the wall behind Zemner as it retracted. Zemner hopped on to it, racing down its length towards Ven's vulnerable human core, but his progress was blocked by more Rakatan appendages. Always, there were more. Zemner swiped at them, and back flipped high into the air to regain space. He shook his head, chuckling.

"Truly, you are the strongest opponent I have ever faced," Zemner said, deactivating his lightsaber. Ven watched with curiosity. "Without a doubt, you are far too powerful for anyone of us alone." Ven swayed like a snake, sensing his advantage was enough to end the fight.

"But do you know what the true strength of a Jedi is?" Zemner asked. Ven cocked his head, narrowing his eyes. Zemner smiled wide, seemingly lighting up the entire room. "It is that we are never _truly_ alone." And from behind him leaped a hundred Knights, a rainbow of lightsabers high in the air, roaring their battle cry.

Not among those warriors, however, was Lanee. She entered with Ryker by her side, as she had wanted to do. The strode with cool confidence into the hallway, a small legion of Sith in their wake. "Oh dear," Ryker said. "We're a bit late."

"Perhaps fashionably?" Lanee suggested coyly.

"No longer my luxury," Ryker lamented facetiously. "You know, the whole Sith Lord thing."

"Right," Lanee nodded. "Shall we?"

"Ladies first," Ryker said elegantly.

For a moment, there were no sides, no factions, no Light and no Dark. Just the Force.

Ven swung from the ceiling, using his extra limbs to pull himself across. The united coalition of Jedi and Sith gave chase. Ven adopted a wicked grin; they were being lead into his trap. As he and the torrent of lightsabers rounded the corner, flattened servitor droids rose from camouflage on the tiles below, latching on to their victims' legs. Yelps and cries rang out as people tripped and fell, wrestling with their robotic captors. Still, there were not nearly enough to stop every pursuer. But this was accounted for.

Ven rocketed through a wall into the baths. Steam obscured his figure, and a hollow metallic laugh echoed through the walls and pillars. The Jedi and Sith slowed to a wary crawl, searching for the enemy with their perception and abandoning sight. But Ven was a unique thing to hunt. Lanee knew this, and shouted her warning of informed experience to everyone around her. A Sith towards the flank of the group suddenly was pulled flat on his face, and shrieked as a tentacle dragged him into the billowing cloud of vapor. Sabers of all colors leapt after him, despite Lanee's cry for them not too. Sharp yells of pain and the crunching of bone filled the room.

"This needs," Ryker said, channeling. "TO GO!" A massive sphere of Force energy blasted away the steam, revealing a blood-drenched Ven holding the limp corpse of a Jedi in his spidery grip. He tossed it aside casually and smirked.

Lanee and Ryker coordinated their attack, simultaneously darting forward from either side. This gave heart to their peers, who surged forward. Ryker pinned a whipping tentacle against a pillar with one saber, and launched the other from his hand towards Ven's face. He deflected it, but Lanee used the tiny window to draw close to the human segment of his body. "Hello," she said, then unleashed a vicious flurry of stabs. Ven moved his body backwards, weaving side-to-side, but a flash of blue nicked his shoulder. He groaned in pain, lashing out and swiping Lanee across the cheek, drawing blood. She winced, but just as the follow up blow to her stomach blasted forth, someone grabbed her by the collar and jumped her to safety.

"Careful now," Master Zemner kindly admonished. "Do not lapse." Lanee thanked him with a frowning apology.

As the Force army battered on Ven's defenses, they grew tired. Ven was limitless in this form, and his ever-widening grin showed he knew it. Never before had there been an enemy capable of withstanding such a unified onslaught of Force users, but somehow this creature was doing it with ease. And in that unprecedented feat, fear was born in the hearts of his enemies.

"Where the hell are Veshiram's soldiers?" Ryker shouted angrily, defending against a whirlwind of metal.

"I don't know!" Lanee yelled in reply. She too was tied down, and her allies were dwindling.

Things looked grim. But she didn't doubt Taylor, not once. And as she called to him with the Force, a reply struck out to her like a tolling bell.

"I'm right here," he said, and pushed by her side. Lanee saw two sabers in his hands; the crimson and the yellow. And then she knew.

Amazingly, the other nineteen Rage Seed-bearers entered combat on their side. Each one was terribly strong and ruthlessly neglectful of their own well-being. Such recklessness proved powerful against Ven when fear was no longer his ally. Together, a wellspring of power was born, and Ven retreated back to the hall. His saber clashed with the lightning quick dashes of those who dared to come close to him. Veshiram's Sith were not at all like Ryker's; their rage was pure. One after another, they appeared, striking and retreating. A constant battery was assembled, focused on Ven's weakest point. They suddenly found themselves forcing him back into the entrance hall, and out the main door, into the stinging tempest of rain on the entrance balcony.

Lanee paused in disbelief to see a group of Padawans, some young and some old, standing side-by-side in the rain. Completey drenched and expressionless, but oddly at peace. Ven seemed confused as well, staring at them, analyzing. Exposed as they were, they were not entirely unguarded; the Jedi Council, sans Zemner, flanked them. Then the grand doors of the entrance swung shut, sealing in the trailing Jedi and Sith, and leaving only Lanee, Ryker, Zemner and Taylor with the Council out to deal with the foe.

"Master, what is this?" Lanee asked in shock.

"Have faith, Lanee," Zemner said solemnly. "This is all part of the plan."

"What plan endangers these – wait," Ryker halted his words. "The Rage Seed lies within these Padawans. These are Veshiram's quarry."

"I found this to be the only way to bring him to this fight," Zemner said. "An unfortunate, but necessary step."

"Veshiram was never amongst our numbers," Lanee said.

"He was looking for these guys," Taylor sighed. Lanee eyed him warily. "It's me. Don't worry," he eased.

"A rare feat," Zemner said. "Only you and one other have managed to harness the Rage Seed, rather than succumb to it."

"Yeah. I can use it," Taylor said. "It hurts. But I can do it. I'd like this thing out after this, though, if you don't mind." Zemner agreed.

Ven was obviously surrounded, but not deterred. That is, until the hovering searchlights of a dozen Republic gunships washed over the balcony. Over a loud speaker, a familiar voice called out. "Master Zemner, the cavalry as arrived," Admiral Yllona announced.

"This ends here, Ven," Lanee roared over the pounding rain. Ven turned slowly to face her. "You cannot escape."

"I. Don't. Need. To," he growled in his heavily processed voice.

A shrill laugh skittered across the soon-to-be battlefield. Veshiram stepped forward from his seclusion, strutting forward in his jerking motions. "I have to hand it to you Zemner. You are clever," he said. "When I heard you tell your plan I thought it surely to be a ruse. But it was literal. You would give my gems up to me if it meant pitting me against my former student."

Zemner watched with uncharacteristically cold eyes. "I do what I must."

"Fool," Veshiram said with a sudden, sour scowl. He stretched forth his palm and beckoned the Seed within the Padawans. But he found himself only straining; there was resistance. A thin stream of blood trickled from Veshiram's nostril. He swiped at it, taken aback. The Jedi Council, upon further inspection, seemed particularly rigid. An aura of protection rippled faintly from them, wrapping around their students.

"I'm afraid that won't work," Zemner stated. Veshiram shot him a venomous glare. His plan had been completely reversed; this feeble Jedi had managed to trap him, now. All his enemies in one place, with no where to run.

"Taylor, destroy him," Veshiram ordered. But his slave did not move. He repeated the order, louder.

"Hmm. Nah," Taylor said. "I'm done listening to you."

"What have you done?" Veshiram snarled, turning back to Zemner, who merely shrugged.

"I did nothing, save for suggest to Taylor that there was an alternative." The venerable Jedi looked towards the young man with respect. "You should be proud, Taylor. Only one before you has managed to repel the Rage Seed as you have. You're in good company."

"Thanks," Taylor responded brightly.

It was at this point that Ven had enough. He slammed his ropy appendages downward, leaving heavy trenches in the marble. All eyes turned to him, but his glare was held only on one.

Ryker's mouth twitched. He stepped forward towards the mechanized maw of his former master.

"Be...trayer..." Ven groaned. Evil intent gleaned in his eye.

Veshiram took umbrage with the designation, however. "Ironic you should call him that, after what you did to me."

"Oh! Me too!" Taylor piped up energetically. Veshiram turned his toxic gaze towards him.

"What's happening?" Lanee whispered to her master.

"Do you see now?" he murmured in reply, smiling broadly. "Why the Sith will never win? This is a circle of broken trust. And so it has always been with them."

"This is the end," Ven creaked.

Veshiram was the first to present himself. His lightsaber made a piercing cry as the blade emitted, stinging jets of steam trailing off of the plasma under the pelting rain. "I feel responsible for this mess," he said, almost so quiet it was imperceptible. "And so I will be the one to finish it."

In a blink, he was within Ven's forest of tentacles, locking blades with his former student. Despite Veshiram's apparent injuries, his speed was absolute. But that alone was not enough. He began losing ground, Ven walking forward, his strength outmatching that of the elderly Sith's. And so Ryker vaulted into the thick of things. Veshiram shot him a sideways leer.

"I will give them no more cause to underestimate me," the younger Sith explained in a duressed voice. Still, Ven's tentacles were too powerful for Ryker's blades. He too was sliding backwards.

Lanee's blue lightsaber roared into existence next to Ryker as she lent her strength to the cause. "We'll do this together," she said resolutely. "Like we always did."

"Absolutely!" Master Zemner cheered, appearing next to them. His blade added to the strength of the push; Ven ground to a halt, his smug smirk replaced by narrowed-eye intensity.

One person had yet to enter the arena. Taylor was lost in thought, beneath that pouring rain. His body felt every bit ready to leap into battle, but concern roiled within his spirit. Without the Rage Seed, he was not enough. But with it, he was no Jedi. He might use it, striking that difficult balance, while maintaining his composure. Yet he watched the efforts of those working to drive back the monster, and he realized they had an identity. They knew, for better or worse, who they were. He didn't. Taylor was afraid to fail them – more than he already had.

Smuggler, vagrant, drifter, lover, leaver, dreamer, captive, failure. Not a Jedi.

"You can choose, you know," said a voice in his head. Taylor looked up, open mouth. "There are no foregone conclusions. No right way to be." It was Zemner speaking to him.

"Everyone is so confident, though," Taylor answered back.

"I think you were once yourself."

Taylor's first lightsaber, his lightsaber, ignited of its own accord. He felt something thrum inside of it, and he knew it was the crystal Lanee had given him.

" _A Jedi must meditate on his crystal to imbue it with the power of the Force."_ Lanee had said that, aboard his ship. " _If you're truly capable of joining us, then you will be able to imprint upon this crystal."_

" _I won't let you down," he promised._

" _I have a feeling you won't," she said, smiling one last time._

Taylor tossed the lightsaber Veshiram had given him over the side of the balcony. He walked forward, crushing his yellow blade into Ven's cocoon of tentacles. A thin hint of a smile emerged on Lanee's face. Taylor screwed up his mouth, smiling sheepishly in return. Now Ven was rapidly approaching the edge.

"What are the odds he survives the fall?" Ryker grunted. The perilous plummet down to whatever platform Courscant had to offer in its vast vertical mileage was surely fatal for any normal sentient. But of course, this was not the case.

"Too good," Veshiram said, straining with all his might. Unearthly howls bellowed from Ven's vocoder.

"Oh, I wouldn't worry," Zemner said, calm as ever. "We're just about...there."

"What?" Taylor asked.

A missile salvo from the hovering gunships was unleashed at the wave of Admiral Yllona's hand. Escape was not possible. The barrage poured into Ven's vulnerable back; his eyes widened in pain for a moment, but after that, they just fell dark. His appendages were ripped to shreds, and Jedi and Sith alike shielded their eyes and faces, ducking behind the inert carapace of their enemy. The Jedi Council managed to scoop up the Padawans and hastily depart the area just in time, but there was no room for the combatants to maneuver. The balcony gave a great heave, spidery cracks shooting out across the marble. Then it simply exploded and crumbled, sending everyone atop hurtling into the dark, rainy crevaces between skyscrapers below.

" **THIS IS THE** STUPIDEST IDEA YOU HAVE EVER HAD," Veshiram shrieked. They were in complete free fall. "And you have had _many_."

"Oh, believe me, I'm well aware," Zemner said. His arms were folded in thought and a frown spread across his lined mouth as he dropped upside-down. "But I felt this was the only way to defeat our foe whilst keeping everyone honest."

"You'd kill us all to insure we followed your precious rules?!" Veshiram asked incredulously.

"I, for one, don't intend to die here today," Ryker announced, telekinetically gripping a massive chunk of falling stone and dragging it to him. "But if you do, by all means." Veshiram scowled and snapped his fingers; Ryker's platform disintegrated into dust. Ryker rolled his eyes and sighed.

"You have a choice, you know," Zemner said. All eyes turned to him. "If you'd all agree to, after this, go your separate ways and maintain the peace, at least for a small number of years, I will save us."

Taylor, who was falling next to Lanee, shouted to her, "Can he do that?" Lanee lost her answer in her throat.

"Fine, yes, whatever you want," Ryker said. "I relent." Veshiram scowled, reluctant to capitulate.

"Very well, then -" Zemner said.

"Wait. I choose life."

Master Zemner looked happier than a man falling many miles to his death had a right to be. "Excellent! Admiral, deploy the net."

"A net..." Taylor wondered. "Oh. This is going to _hurt_."

They had a lot of velocity, but it was absorbed by the miraculous materials spread between the buildings beneath them by Republic police forces. Five bodies rocketed into the memory foam like meteors, the impact knocking the wind out of them and sending them bouncing back into the air. Like rubber balls they dribbled on the net a few times before coming to a motionless, agonizing stop. Groans all around were heard as they slowly picked themselves up from the safety net.

"This. This is why I'm not a Jedi," Ryker rasped, clutching his ribs.

"That's...not entirely unreasonable," Lanee replied.

"I don't know, I had fun," Taylor stated plainly.

"Just shut up," Ryker spat.

 **DESPITE NUMEROUS CRIES** to do otherwise, Master Zemner himself gave amnesty to a seething, wounded Veshiram who lurched away from many that would him arrested. A pledge was a pledge, after all. Neither Lanee nor Taylor would soon forget the furious ember in the Sith's baggy eyes as he turned heel and wriggled off into the dark depths. He would surface again; everyone knew it. But by then, they would be ready.

Ryker's faithful departed in the small fighters they had come in on, back to their waiting cruiser in orbit. But before their master himself left, he held a long gaze with his old friend in the fresh orange rays that parted the dark clouds of the previous night's storm.

"I won't stop trying," Lanee told him.

"I expected as much," he answered back. "It's funny. For all this soul searching we've done, things ended up exactly where they started. I guess the manipulator's prophecy of cycles wasn't wrong after all."

"No," Lanee disagreed. "I don't think things are quite the same."

Ryker sighed. "Until next time, then." Lanee nodded.

Later on, she and Taylor sparred in the training room.

"So you guys just...let them all go?" Taylor asked, ducking beneath the training sword's incoming sweep.

"Things don't change for the better if you force them," Lanee responded, parrying his counter. "It has to come from within. Surely you've seen enough to understand _that_ lesson."

"So why train then?" Taylor asked, dancing around her blows. "Shouldn't I just focus on fostering my own power? From within?"

"Well, not always," Lanee said, sizing up her opponent. "I tried to do that – everything by myself. It didn't work so well."

Taylor paused to consider the words, but was knocked backwards to the floor for his lapse in concentration. Lanee laughed loudly. "And it seems you still have a lot of changing to do yourself if you want to beat me."

"Is that what makes you feel powerful?" Taylor asked from the floor with the indications of a laugh.

"No," she said with a grin, "This is." And she extended a hand to help him up.

 **THE END**

 **AUTHOR'S FINAL THOUGHTS:** First and foremost, thanks for all the great support I've received in doing this story. It was a new, and ultimately positive, experience for me. I'd never really considered fan fiction before, but the _Star Wars_ universe is so rich in lore that I found myself intrigued by the design space. The short story format in which _Apex Ascent_ is written is also new to me; I'm more accustomed to attempting longer, more cohesive projects. That said, I thoroughly enjoyed the more serialized manner in which I was able to write, and will probably return to it in future endeavors (more on that in a bit). However, I would like to take a moment here to perhaps explain and clarify a few things that may have not been properly fleshed out due to brevity.

The Veshiram thing is what I most want to talk about. Let me summarize it briefly: Veshiram was a Sith from the old Empire (Great Hyperspace War era). This is indicated by Master Zemner's story to Lanee in Part 4, and also touched on a bit by different characters in Part 5. This Empire is the same one from The Old Republic MMO, and the one referenced in KOTOR 2 by Kreia as having been the hidden threat that motivated Revan's actions in the Jedi Civil War and beyond (and, uh, where I'll be doing some more work in the future :D). Veshiram was the harbinger, essentially, trying to destabilize the Jedi and consolidate the remnants of Revan's Sith. His side goal emerged as he discovered the Apex Ascent.

Veshiram took an apprentice under his wing in Ven. Ven turned on Veshiram, as Sith often do to their masters, because Veshiram's plan to use the Rage Seed to subjugate the Jedi from within was unpopular with the current crop of Sith. They wanted a more robust plan of action than to rely on mystic Force techniques of mind control they had never seen before. Ven saw it as an opportunity to surpass Veshiram, quite simply because he was a model Sith. Veshiram, though betrayed, quickly saw his own opportunity, as he realized if he allowed Ven to maim him, he could utilize the Ascent for himself to acquire a new, incredibly strong body.

The Ascent, as explained in the story, needed a live sacrifice to work. This was no problem for Veshiram, of course, as he could use a victim with the Rage Seed to control. It just so happened that Taylor was the one chosen, as he was already particularly strong in the Force. Veshiram sought to draw Taylor to Korriban by sending the Rodian with Silarith's holocron to Taylor at the very beginning of Part 1. There was a slight flaw in the plan in the form of Lanee, though, who accompanied Taylor to Korriban in search of her friend, Ryker (though officially she searched for Ven). Veshiram again saw an opportunity, however, and sent both of them on their way to the Ascent. His aim was for Lanee, Ryker, and Ven to destroy each other, as Veshiram knew of Ryker's mistrust of his master. This would eliminate all of his most powerful enemies at once, and then he could utilize Taylor's Rage Seed to make him his sacrifice for the machine. This plan failed when Lanee overcame Taylor and maimed him as well, rendering him useless as a sacrifice.

Veshiram then decides to activate his army of Seeds and attack the Jedi Temple, after building up eight more. This would make his total number of Seeds twenty-one (thirteen originally, including Taylor, and eight more with Taylor's help). A sizable force of powerful Sith to attack the Temple, and hopefully trigger the latent Seeds within. Remember that the Jedi were still in their rebuilding phase after the war, so there aren't very many at this point in the timeline.

Ven, though seemingly slain by Ryker, was not done. As Lanee conjectured, the Ascent had a plan for a corpse that was much more deadly than for a mere cripple. Ven became the Ascent's monstrosity, and was used as a defense mechanism when the Republic's cruiser arrived to bombard the installation. Though Lanee managed to barely escape the new, horrific Ven, he did track her ship back to Coruscant, where his addled machine brain discovered he could find revenge against both his former master Veshiram and apprentice Ryker, who had each betrayed him.

All of this leads to a final confrontation in Part 5.

I did it this way to bring home the themes I was working with since the start: that the Force moved life in cycles, and that each individual had a very personal relationship with the Force. _Star Wars_ has always very much been a vehicle for the classic hero's journey, but this story let me explore some amount of deconstruction of that concept. Taylor wanted so badly to be that hero, and instead was enslaved to become the opposite. Lanee was that hero, but she was riddled with doubt after having lost not one, but two close friends to the other side. Ryker could have been that hero, but pride and vanity obstructed his path. Ven wanted only to be whole, but used the Dark Side as his means of achieving that goal, taking the live's of others to fix his own (this was why his final form was reflected as the parasitic entity the Ascent made of him). Veshiram was the manipulator pulling the strings, and Zemner was the wise teacher willing to give it all up to break the cycle.

Anyway, I hope you guys found enjoyment in this story. I know I did in writing it. Please share it with your friends who might be interested in such things, and let me know what you thought of it in the reviews. Finally, keep an eye out for my next work, which should be coming sooner than later. It's entitled _The Alchemist_ , and it too is a _Star Wars_ story. The Prologue is already up on my profile.

Thanks so much! See ya.


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